Compos Mentis
by This Is Melodrama
Summary: A lot of people think that I'm just a shallow girl, but there's a lot more that I think about that I'm not willing to say.
1. Cycles

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders.**

* * *

 **compos mentis:** having full control of one's mind; sane

 _And looking intently at the council, Paul said, "Brothers, I have lived my life before God in all good conscience up to this day."_ —Acts 23:1

I had always liked going to church, always liked listening to the pastor speak. The sermons were both the same and different each time around, but I liked to believe that I could get more out of them every time I went. My family wasn't real religious or anything like that, but Ma always said to praise the Lord Jesus Christ, to live by His word and His word only. I guess she influenced me a little, but that was before Daddy left us and she became a drunken bitch.

I gazed out at the scenery around us while Ma drove us home. It was only the two of us for now—Tim and Curly were both in the reformatory, and I didn't have nobody to call Daddy for the time being. The sky was awfully nice for a cool, crisp Winter morning, but I like the cooler days more than the warmer ones. Winter likes to freeze everything in its wake, holding it comatose until Spring blossoms and melts the icy death Winter has left behind.

It's almost romantic, well, I'd like to think.

"Angela," Ma called, and shot me a stern look. "You listenin' to me?"

I shrugged, brushing my dark locks away from my face.

A car whizzed by, and my attention was almost immediately captivated, Ma's voice lulling into the background again—something about getting some groceries, or lack of, because money was tight and we could hardly pay the fucking bills . . .

It's a never-ending cycle, one that I'd become accustomed to at an early age. But I wasn't even paying attention to her rambling anymore.

Ma didn't know on the way home from church that I thought an awful lot about death. Sometimes, when I'm the passenger in a vehicle, I often imagine another car driving into us and killing me. Most people say that they see their entire lives flash before their eyes, but I think that I would welcome death like an old friend and skip merrily into the light, or whatever. A lot of those same people think that I'm just a shallow girl, but there's a lot more that I think about that I'm not willing to say.

Then again, I wouldn't want them to see what I've seen, or hear what I've heard, because I'm more than certain that it would be their undoing . . .

* * *

Tim hated when I hung around with him, well, not _always_ , but a lot of times. I'm closer to him than I am to Curly; maybe it's because he's the oldest and I'm the youngest. There ain't a huge age gap between us—only five years. When I'm feeling awfully lonely, I go to Tim for some company; he used to loathe that, but over the years, he discovered that I depended on him more than anybody—he knew that before I knew it myself.

Sometimes, Tim would brush my hair. He wouldn't say nothin', not that I ever expected him to, but I would come to him, brush in hand, and would sit in front of him on the floor while he got to work on trying to detangle my mane of blue-black locks. The three of us—Tim, Curly, and I—all had Daddy's hair. It was long, dark, and silky. Ma was the outcast—none of us looked like her. She was short and willowy, and her hair was sun-kissed, golden blond, her eyes the color of the sea. Us kids, though, we had dark hair, stark blue eyes, and dark complexions.

Tim understands me, which is more than I can say for Curly. Curly wants to be just like Tim, but he's always hanging all over me and coming to me for advice and shit. I hate it, I swear to God that I _hate_ how fucking clingy Curly is. I mean, I don't hate _him_ —I love him in some fucked up, twisted way—but at the same time, I hate him.

I hate a lot of things.

I hate my mom's string of boyfriends, I hate the kids at school, I hate a lot of Tim's friends, sometimes I think I hate men in general. Is that weird? There ain't a lot of decent girls to talk to or gossip with around this joint, so I bottle a lot of these feelings up and just go on about my life like there ain't nothin' wrong. Boy, it would just about kill Ma if she knew the way I was thinkin' at a young age, but what else was I _supposed_ to do?

I like boys, like them a lot, but I can't stop the nagging thought that looms in the back of my mind that I might just hate them, too. I think it's because Daddy—when he was around—was always yelling at Ma, making things out to be her fault, and beating on her. I really don't remember too much of it, being so young an' all, but Tim does, and boy does he _hate_ that bastard almost as much as he hates God himself. Curly swears he don't remember Daddy at all, but I think he does, and I think him rebellin' and trying to be like Tim is his own psychological warfare at trying to get back him. With Tim, it's all about God; him and I are alike in the same sense. Weird, huh?

Tim's a force of nature that nobody wants to mess with. I remember him always being in trouble when I was little—breaking laws just for the thrill of it, fighting, stealing, mugging, cussing—you name it, he did it. Tim was a wild cat like that, but he hated God so much he did anything and everything in his power to rebel against society. I was pretty certain at a ripe young age that my oldest brother had already branded himself a place in hell.

* * *

I wasn't insane.

Teachers at school thought I was part of a strange breed. They were always looking at me sideways, probably assuming that I was up to no good. I did real well in school, made decent grades and all that shit. That was before I realized that it don't matter none, at least, not for a girl like me. Maybe a girl like me means not being safe for this world at all, or maybe I'm just eternally condemned.

The teachers hated Tim and Curly both, but by the time Tim was sixteen, he dropped out. Nobody seemed to care, and I'm certain no one with half a brain missed him. Same went for Curly. I think if he actually gave a hoot about himself and stopped conforming so that people would actually think he was tough, he could really do something with himself. Thing is, he don't do squat. But I did, and sometimes, when I'm feeling any kind of motivation, I still do.

The only reason my teachers hated me was because I was a perfect reminder of Tim and Curly both, and trust me, when you're known as a sibling of the Shepard's, you're _known_ , and it ain't in the good way, that much is for certain. I never realized how much people hated my family until I got older and started hearing the shit they said—the snide whispers and the dirty lies. The worst part of it all, though, was the ugly truth.

I was loathed before anyone even had a chance to _know_ me, and I don't just mean by name.

Still, I had a lot of opinions and thoughts for a young girl. I was always a curious thing, and sometimes, I swear, Ma despised it. I think there were times when she honestly despised _me_ , and whether it was because I was her only girl, or because I was young and free, I'll never know. Thing is, I wasn't ever free, and I don't recall ever having one happy day in my entire life.

I remember always thinkin' and thinkin', wondering what would happen to me once everyone left, or in other words, died. I was alone to begin with—Tim was always running his gang and taking care of business, and he was constantly in and out of jail. Curly clung to me and wanted me to understand him, but he never made any time to understand me back. Ma was too far gone to make the attempt, and the girls around town were too fake and fabricated to be real friends.

Sometimes, I just really wanted someone to talk to, someone to open up to, someone to fucking understand _me_ , but I was pretty sure there was no one, and by the time I was ten, I was positive that there never would be—I would just simply be forever alone. You wouldn't believe that some part of me was actually alright with that, but I was, and I was only ten.

"Angela, are you paying attention?" Mrs. Reid asked me. Her piercing eyes seemed to burn a hole straight through my skull—I was eleven at the time—as she scrutinized me.

She had been Tim's fifth grade teacher, too, and she hated him for always pulling pranks during class time and talkin' back to her, so naturally, I was her eighth deadly sin, and boy, could that woman give the nastiest looks you could ever imagine.

I raised a brow at her. "Denver." At her obnoxious stare, I merely continued, chin lifting in an almost defiant manner. "You asked me what the capital of Colorado is."

Told you I wasn't insane.

* * *

I took an interest in boys when I was thirteen or so. I liked the way they kissed girls in magazines and in the movies. I wanted to be that girl who got her first kiss from some rescuing hunk who came on a white horse to make things better. Real sappy, right? But I was only a girl with a lot of thoughts and hopes that I didn't realize were fucking pointless.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, that never happened.

I got my first kiss from one of Tim's best friends when I was four months shy of fourteen. It all happened quickly, well, quicker than what I expected anyway. It wasn't that it was bad or horrible, or anything like that, but it didn't feel, and I'm sure as hell it didn't look, like something in the movies.

Dallas Winston's lips were rough and unforgiving, cold like him. I'm not exactly sure _why_ he kissed me, but I suppose he felt somewhat sorry for me. All the boys were too afraid to approach me, being Tim Shepard's kid sister an' all, so I decided to take matters into my own hands.

I was sitting on the couch in the living room, staring aimlessly at the tube. Ma hadn't paid the bills again, so the electric was turned off. I was used to this cycle, too—Ma would meet a guy, he would weasel his way into our home, keep our bills paid for a while, then he would start fighting with Ma, she'd send him packing, and we'd be back to square one all over again.

The front door slammed open, but I was too engrossed in doing nothing that I didn't bother to see who had waltzed on in. I didn't really care, either, to be absolutely honest—strange people entered our house all the time.

"Hey, kid, where's yer brother?" Dallas asked, looking down his thin nose at me.

My eyes flickered in his direction. "Ain't here."

"Where'd he go?"

"Dunno."

I never cared for any of Tim's friends—they weren't nice people, not the kind I imagined kissing me or saving me, or any of that shit. But Dallas was something else. He an' Tim were exactly alike, but even though them two were cut from the same cloth, they were as different as they were alike. For some reason, I liked Dallas. He stood out with his white-blond hair and elfin face. His icy blue eyes could see through the soul, I was certain, and there was something attracting about him, and believe me, it wasn't his looks.

He plopped down beside me, draping an arm around the back of the couch. "Why ain't you in school, kid?"

A shrug. "Ma forgot to drive me in this morning. I wasn't walkin' in the rain, either."

Dallas smirked, lighting up a cigarette, before giving me a nudge. "Keepin' those grades up, are ya? Gonna be a nun some day?"

"Like hell, Winston," I bit out.

"Could have fooled me," he continued on, and then that cocky grin was plastered back on his face, and I swore for a second he looked like the devil himself. "You're as prude as they come."

I hated that he could get me so riled up. "Fuck you."

"If you want."

My eyes met his for a second, one second too many, breath hitching in my throat. Boys had said things to me before, but never as direct or as blunt at that. Dallas _was_ the devil, I decided, and temptation was settling in the longer I stared at him.

"Go away," I said with a scowl. "Tim ain't here, so beat it."

But Dallas was leaning closer, like a snake, smoke wafting out of his mouth and sailing in my direction. He was right beside me before I even had a chance to blink. His eyes were slitting, a surreal expression on his face as he leaned beside me, fingers brushing my leg.

"You ever been kissed, Angel?"

I was too captivated to say anything, so I shook my head, wondering if he'd even believe me. It was the truth, though—nobody had ever kissed me, until then.

After Dallas kissed me, I decided that I wanted more or it, and I knew it wouldn't be from him. Glory, no. Dallas Winston was turning eighteen that Fall, and he had more morals than to go around preying on little girls, or little kids like me. I didn't think I was a kid—I had seen and done too much, but if that's how Dallas Winston saw me, I assumed that half the guys like him saw me the same way. Frail, innocent Angela Shepard.

Things would have to change.

* * *

Turns out I liked sinning.

I liked when boys gave me attention, liked when I was the one in control. I liked how easily manipulated they were depending on how I dressed or did my hair and makeup. It was really just a game to me—I didn't care about any of them. It was funny—in my town, it was always the boys playing the girls, making them cry for loving and leaving them. With me, I was the one loving and leaving _them_ , and for some reason, I got the best kind of thrill out of it. Well, some part of me, some part that was buried deep down below anything that was keeping me physically alive, felt guilty.

Still, none of that ever halted me from going after what I wanted. And I always got what I wanted. I was used to it at fourteen.

Some people say that conscience is the voice of God, so I wondered why I didn't hear it when I tried shooting up for the first time. It wasn't exactly a smart decision, I'll admit, but I wanted to be able to say that I'd done something, something that was considered fucking crazy, so I did. Maybe I wasn't exactly sober, maybe I had one drink too many, but I was sober enough to answer coherently and make my own damn choices.

"Angel," Graham Parker called, sitting down beside me. He gave me a coy grin, one that made his eyes seem to brighten up, as he handed me a tourniquet and a syringe. "Try it."

"What is it?"

"Heroin."

Tim made me swear once that I wouldn't ever touch drugs, made me swear to him that I wouldn't so much as look at them if presented with the idea of using. I was a saint, then, I suppose—young, innocent, and probably on my way to the nunnery. But at fourteen, I was ready to experiment, curious to a fault, and eager to impress anyone who was willing to give me the right time of day.

I did as Graham Parker instructed me, sticking that fucking thing in my arm, and practically passing the hell out from nerves. I'm not sure what happened after that—one minute I was sitting with Graham, the next, Billy Walkins was on top of me and I couldn't breathe. All I remembered was his breath, the sound of his heavy breathing, and the smell of cheap liquor, stale cigarettes, and weed. I was gasping for air, trying to pry his fingers off of my arms in a fruitless attempt to get free.

Tim was in bed when I got home at nearly two in the morning. The only thing I could think to do was grab my brush and shake him until he woke up, eyes hard and cold as he stared over at me expectantly, lips pressed into a thin line.

I simply held my brush out to him, eyes glassy with tears, makeup stained, and clothes torn. He didn't say anything at first, just turned the light on beside his bed and took a good look at me. I knew he knew what happened, I could _feel_ it, but he didn't say anything. He took the brush from my shaking hands as I sank to the floor and he began stroking it through my messy hair, slowly trying to undo the tangled mess it had become.

His hands were shaking, too.

* * *

Betty Morris passed me a blunt while the two of us sat by the train tracks one afternoon. I had almost quit going to school—didn't see the point of it anymore. None of us were getting out of the shithole we called our hometown anyway, so who cared about some lousy education? I took a drag, letting the fumes calm me some—I hated gettin' worked up.

I could feel Betty's eyes on me, so I looked over at her, passing the blunt back. "What?"

She nodded at my arm. "Yer mamma's new boy toy?"

A grimace jerked my focus away from her, and I shrugged. "It ain't nothin'. Mind your business."

But Betty didn't take the hint, and she eyed me hardly, flicking the finished joint from her fingers. "I'm just lookin' out for ya, Angela. Quit being such a bitch, would ya?"

"You don't know shit."

And that was true. Betty didn't know shit because she hadn't seen enough of my life to know anything about me—she was just another girl from the wrong side of town, trying to get by. Her home life was a helluva lot better than mine; glory, she didn't know the half of it. She just thought I was another sleazy whore like her, but I wasn't.

Betty snickered, shaking her head. "You got another thing comin', Angela. You ought to quit treatin' people like they're dirt." She stood up, dusting her capris off. "Maybe people would like ya a little better if you didn't act like you were so fucking great." She huffed. "And you sure as hell shouldn't be taking _that_ kinda shit, either."

I inwardly cringed at the marks on my forearm. Well, Betty knew a little about what went on inside my house, that was truth enough, but she didn't know _everything_ like she thought. Sure, Ma's latest boyfriend thought it was alright to put his hands on me whenever he thought I was getting mouthy or brazen, but it wasn't nothin' like what her past suitors had done—no sirree bub.

"If Tim was around, Leon wouldn't touch me," I snarled, downing the last of our shared bottle of beer.

Betty rolled her eyes. "You always gonna have your brother protecting you? Gosh, Angela, you're fourteen years old. You gotta grow the hell up, don't you think?"

I was mad, then. She had no right telling me what the fuck to do; she hadn't lived my life, didn't know me any better than she knew my brothers. I had broken the beer bottle against the track, pointing it in her direction with a harsh glare, one that meant business.

"Don't go stickin' your nose in my business, Betty, or I'll slit your fucking throat." It was a threat, and I had meant it.

Betty had only stared at me before strolling off, probably to head back to her house. I didn't move from my spot, instead pulling out a cigarette and lighting up. I wasn't very good at having or keeping friends, and I supposed some part of that was because I didn't want people getting, or trying, to know me. I never did good with people, but I suppose I'm like my Ma that way.

It was that cycle again—Daddy didn't want Ma, so Ma didn't want me—or us—so I didn't want anyone.

* * *

 _Now the Lord is Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom._ —Corinthians 3:17

I listened to the pastor recite that verse a few times already, but I never quite understood it. I had quit attending sermons when I was twelve, but one Sunday morning, I found myself sitting in the back of the church by myself, listening to the word of the Lord being preached for over an hour. It was a cold Winter day, the sky cloudy and gray, as if death had once again swallowed up every color that Spring blossomed earlier in the year.

I had always wondered why I liked the Winter so much, and at fourteen years old, I believed that I had found my answer. It was the same thoughts that I had at just eight years old, when I imagined myself greeting death merrily as if it were an old friend—I was bitter. I didn't have one happy day in my life, and even when I tried, life always showed me the realism of itself, and never once was I truly blinded by the facade of hope.

I would never be free in my own existence, I figured, and that was alright with me. I suppose that some part of myself would always reside in the past because I didn't want to forget anything. Maybe I would drink myself insane and end up like Ma, or maybe I would end up getting hit by that oncoming car. It didn't matter what happened next, or how it went—the world would continue to carry on and on, breathing life into itself and suffocating it at the same time. I had been no exception.

Later that morning, I walked leisurely around the cemetery. It didn't take me long to find what I was searching for, either—Dallas Winston's headstone. He and the Cade kid had been buried beside each other two and a half months earlier. I remembered Dallas, remembering how rough his lips had felt against my own that one afternoon when he'd kissed me, and I felt something sink into the very pit of my stomach—maybe it was my heart after all.

It had been another cycle, one that I both could and couldn't understand—Johnny Cade admired Dallas Winston, that was no secret, and in return, Dallas protected Johnny. Johnny died, so Dallas died, too, plain and simple. Yes, death was an old friend indeed, and just like the harshness of Winter did it take and take, greedily and hungrily until there was nothing left. I was positive that whenever my own day came, I would exit with a clear conscience, and up to that particular point, I was sure that I was fully in control of myself—maybe I wasn't, but I didn't regret one thing about it. At least I would be free of my own foreboding thoughts, but until then, I was alive, awake, and aware—compos mentis—I wasn't insane.

Everything happens for a reason, right?

A lot of people think that I'm just a shallow girl, but there's a lot more that I think about that I'm not willing to say. Then again, I wouldn't want them to see what I've seen, or hear what I've heard, because I'm more than certain that it would be their undoing.

. . . as it was my own.


	2. Wicked Desperation

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. **

* * *

**wicked:** evil or morally wrong

 _The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?_ —Jeremiah 17:9

I liked that verse a lot.

Learning it at real young age taught me a lot of things—things like the fact that it applied to my family (Daddy's abuse and fidelity, Ma's estranged relationship with us kids in favor of her constant male friends), boys (the way they used girls so easily, trashing them and lying about them), girls (their internal and never-ending jealousy that turned them against each other), humanity (don't think I need to explain this one) . . . and me.

I laid back on the floor, legs up and bent over the side of my bed, wet toenails glistening scarlet in the dim lighting as the fresh coat of polish dried. It was so damn hot out, the Summer air thick and stuffy, and our house was suffocating. The window was open, the one dull streetlight on the corner of the road barely creeping through. One fan was circulating the air, or at least trying to, which kept the bedroom almost breathable. Unfortunately, it wasn't doing much for my hair, which was sticking to the back of my moistened neck.

With a dramatic sigh, I rolled my shirt up to my chest, exposing my torso to the air. Rolling my chin a little, I looked myself over from this angle, wondering why my tits were so small. Glory, no wonder people thought I was twelve instead of fourteen—I barely had anything to show for my age. Sure, I had felt mature when I'd gotten my period two years ago, but I wished that my chest and ass would grow a little. Even Betty was wearing a _real_ bra, and so were a lot of the other girls I went to school with, but me? I was stuck in a flimsy trainer bra—could've still gotten away with just a plain undershirt if you want the truth.

Tossing my arms back above my head, I ground my teeth as my right hand hit the edge of something that was hidden under my growing pile of laundry. I thrust my hand under the clothes, fishing around for whatever I'd hit, until I was able to locate it—my bible.

I'd remembered it alright—used to carry it along with me whenever Ma dragged my ass to church with her on sporadic Sundays. Of course, I had always liked going—made me think a lot, mostly about death, but I was still thinkin'. I flipped through the old pages, glancing at the different verses I had circled around, or highlighted, trying to remember what they had meant to me back then.

A knock on the door interrupted me. Not waiting for a response, Tim walked on in, taking one look at me and rolling his dark and smoldering eyes.

"Pull your shirt down, Angel," he ordered in a gruff voice, pushing the door closed and kicking back on my bed, not caring that he was getting his sweat all over my blankets and pillows.

"You're the one who barged in here," I replied, crossing my ankles beside his face and letting my big toe flick his cheek. "'Sides, I'll do what I'd like. Ain't nobody the boss of me."

I couldn't see his face, but I was sure Tim was scowling. But it didn't matter—he knew my words were the truth. Nobody really took care of me, so I was my own boss and I did what I wanted, why I wanted, and how I wanted. Plain and simple.

"You ever gonna fess up?"

My eyes seemed to squeeze shut on their own accord. "About what?"

Tim huffed. "You know what, Angel. When are ya gonna quit playin' this fuckin' game, huh?" He was sitting up a little, staring down at me hardly with a look I thought could kill somebody. "Who did it?"

It wasn't a game, but getting myself to admit who had . . . who had . . . who had . . . Who had what? I wasn't ever taken advantage of, so the word Tim was thinkin' . . . it didn't happen. Nobody hurt me unless I let them, and I wouldn't ever let nobody hurt me. But he had been attempting to get me to open up and tell him what had happened the night I came into his room, brush in hand, shaking him awake.

I didn't know that I had blood smeared between my legs until he'd pointed it out. I'd felt sick to my stomach—worse than I had when I'd drank tequila. I hate tequila. But I had walked almost crookedly to the bathroom, turning the bath water on and peeling my clothes off while the tub filled. It disgusted me that I'd walked home like that—I looked like a fucking train wreck.

I'd mustered the strength to climb into the tub a moment later, the luke-warm water doing little to comfort me. But even when it turned icy cold, I stayed planted in it, staring straight ahead at the faucet and wondering if I could just drown myself.

When Tim realized that I was done talking, he rested his head back on my pillow, neither one of us sayin' anything for a while.

* * *

Betty Morris was a real cunt. I both liked and disliked her, but I think I disliked her more because she was always talking at me instead of to me. She would go around flaunting herself and pretending that she was more than what she was, and believe me, it wasn't much to begin with. She was a pretty girl an' all, had a nice face like Audrey Hepburn, dark hair, and big brown eyes, but dammit, I was good looking, too, and the hell with Betty if she didn't think so.

Her pointed look let me know that she was about to eat away at me. "Glory, Angela, you should try another top with those pants. It don't look good with your makeup."

"Fuck you," I replied, confident in my own appearance. 'Sides, I was the one boys liked checking out—Betty had to tag along with me when she wanted a hot date. She could get them on her own, sure, but being with me only boosted her ego and made her more confident in herself. "I like the way I look."

"Whatever," she said, fluffing her dark curls. And there she went talking at me again. "Ya know, Angel, I think if you tried a little more with your looks you could really get somewhere, maybe Hollywood, and then you wouldn't be stuck here bein' white trash with the rest of us."

My lips had curled back, and I snarled. "Who the fuck are you calling white trash, Betty Morris, 'cause you ain't nothin' too great."

"Exactly," she purred, lighting up a joint. "And neither are you, and with your looks, you could be. All I'm sayin' is that you're wasting all that beauty away on drugs and booze. Why not make something of yourself?"

"I've got all I need," came my sharp response, and once I finished extending my liner a little more did I turn back to face her. "Are you about done yet? I've got places to be."

* * *

Did you know that it takes a lot of people to make up one person?

I counted backward from ten with every shot that I took that evening, my legs feeling like jell-o and my head all fuzzy, pupils dilated so much I could have been some type of devil. Betty Morris was to my right, giggling as she tried sweet-talkin' some greasy hood. He was givin' it right back to her, his hands roaming across her body as he planted little kisses on her jaw.

Licking my lips, I let my head roll to the side, one hand reaching out into the night air, fingers spread open as a soft breeze brushed through them. With my eyes closed I could pretend that I was flying, flying somewhere away from this shithole town with its shithole people. I could go anywhere that I wanted when my eyes were closed, I could be anyone and do anything that I wanted to.

"Angela Shepard?"

I opened my eyes and my delirium was lost. I stared at Billy Walkins who was looking back at me with a peculiar expression, just standing there as if he was trying to remember me, trying to place me, and I was certain that he remembered more than just that, the prick. I had seen him earlier talking to some other hoods, a girl hanging on his arm. It surprised me a lot, seeing him completely different like that, but I couldn't feel anything.

He was a son, a friend, a member of a gang, a hood, a fighter, a predator . . . a . . .

The contents of my stomach emptied at his feet.

* * *

Sometimes I liked being by myself, and other times I longed for company. Most of the time, though, I really preferred the former. People just talk too much, say things, move around, breathe . . . It lets me know that there is something—someone—else alive near me, and it makes me sick. I'm not sure how Tim manages running a gang so easily, but then again, I don't imagine that it's real work, either. Sure, he's gotta deal with a bunch of idiots, a job he's really not qualified for, but it ain't work.

I'm fourteen and a half when I start selling dope, and I'm certain that it ain't much of a job, either. But it gets me the dough that I need to supply myself with necessities and non-necessities. The worst part about the job is all the interaction. I reckon if Tim found out what I was doin', he would skin me and not think twice about it. Sometimes, I'm not sure that I mind—Curly had started sellin' grass, so what's the big deal if I'm selling, too? Then again, I aim for the harder stuff—it's more income in my pocket.

"Angel," Betty said, grinning proudly. She was my first customer. She looked down at the two pills that were stashed in a dime bag and raised an eyebrow. "I'll take two of them."

It's sickening to watch a friend conform to a drug-addict and know that you're partially involved and partially responsible for it. I don't know what happened, but one night while we were sitting in her bedroom, Betty Morris started whacking out, and I mean real crazy like. Her eyes rolled back, her body was jerking around, and her mouth was foaming.

I called the cops and bolted.

Betty was dead before I was even out of the house.

I thought about how I liked being alone because of how people do too many things, and it dawned of me in one instant that Betty would never do anything again, and I almost envied her. In some sick and twisted fucked up way, I know that I'm to blame for Betty Morris's death, a haunting fact that I will never be able to ignore for the rest of my life.

Betty was my first and last customer.

* * *

 _Hello darkness my old friend, I've come to talk with you again . . ._

I was back in my bedroom on a Saturday at two o'clock in the morning, the sound of Simon & Garfunkel playing softly in the background. My tongue was running across my lips as I pretended that it was a boy kissing me while we laid out in a field of weeds somewhere, or anywhere, or nowhere.

Betty had been gone for nearly three weeks already, and every day, I want to pray and beg for forgiveness but don't. Instead, I talk to the silence, or in other words, myself.

The front door slammed closed, and I sat up on the bed with a worried look. Ma was out, Curly was in the slammer, and Tim was out with friends, so it could only be one other occupant of the household. It don't take long before Leon's boots thundered down the hallway, and it don't take long for the fucker to show up at my bedroom door, either.

He nearly broke the damn thing straight off its hinges as he swaggered on in, looking around until his rotten eyes landed on me. "Where the fuck is yer brother, girl?" he asked, taking another step inside. He thought he was intimidating, and he was, but I'm gutsy and don't let nobody know how they're makin' me feel, no matter how big they are. "You deaf, bitch? I asked ya a question."

"I don't know," I lied, but Leon knew better.

He came storming into my room, grabbing at my frail arm and slapping me good and hard across the face before throwing me back onto the bed. He reeked of booze, and his eyes were nasty and bitter and ugly, like him, but I refused to cower.

"Don't fuckin' touch me, you bastard," I shouted, smacking his hand away. "You ain't my daddy."

And that did for Leon.

Before I even had a chance to react, he slammed me back against the wall and whacked me upside the head, just like Daddy used to do to Ma, and I was hardly conscious by the time he was done, the only thing in my sight being my old bible sticking out from under a blouse in the corner.

 _. . . the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls, and tenement halls, and whispered in the sound of silence . . ._

* * *

I'm not sure why, but I had this bizarre and warped likeness for visiting Dallas Winston's grave. Two months after he and the Cade kid died, I had strolled through the cemetery, aimlessly browsing for the towheaded hood's headstone. I hadn't gone to the burial, so I never knew where it was located, but it sure didn't take long to find.

I suppose there _is_ one reason why I enjoyed visiting his gave so often, and that was because that jerk had died knowing one piece of me that nobody else did—not even Tim.

It was one night last Fall during the entire showdown with that Soc getting knifed. The Cade kid and Ponyboy Curtis were fugitives on the run, Curly was locked up, and Tim was out talking to the leader of the Brumly Boys about joining his and the Curtis gang in the upcoming rumble. I had only rolled my eyes—justice my ass. Being a bunch of fucking morons sounded more like it, if you want to be perfectly honest. But, hey, I'm just a kid—a girl—and I don't know nothin' about rumbles and gang wars or anything else.

I was hanging down by the Ribbon, drinking a little bit and hanging out with Marielle Thompson and Cheryl Hayes. Cheryl was a real wild cat, and I felt somewhat empowered when I was in her company, not that she really paid me too much mind. But Dallas had showed up with a bunch of other guys like him, real tough hoods that were as hard as nails and twice as mean. Not exactly the type of fellow I wanted taking me home for the night, but then again, I didn't really enjoy being taken home by anyone. I just liked some company, someone or something to make me forget everything else for a while.

Dallas swaggered up behind me, face pressed close to mine, so close in fact, that I could feel his blond hair tickling my own flesh. He smelled of booze and cigarettes, but something about the way the booze wafted from his mouth into my own through the air particles made me feel at ease. Sounds crazy, but I was always told that I was a crazy girl, so what did it matter?

"Your brothers know you're here?" Dallas questioned, arms resting around the sides of my legs on the hood of somebody's car.

I giggled, turning my head a little so that I could see him better. "Does it matter? I can do what I want, Dallas, so get lost." Taking a swig of whiskey, I blew a little in his face. "I ain't lookin' for your company, playboy, so go hang on another girl."

His lips pressed to my cheek, distracting me for a second so he could swipe my liquor and guzzle it down, his face screwing up as he swallowed. I could only stare at his captivating eyes, eyes that were bitter and unfeeling, just like the rest of him.

He stared back at me. "Let me take you home, Angel."

I simply nodded, and the two of us were off. I don't remember too much of anything that happened after that, but I did recall telling that asshole that Billy Walkins forced himself on me a few months back, and I never thought I could see Dallas Winston's face turn so deadly. I had seen guys from my brother's gang get mean and dangerous, but the look in Dallas's eyes could kill, I was sure. He took me home, though, and that was the last I had ever seen of him.

Two nights later he was dead.

Funny, huh, how things worked like that. One would think I would have told Tim the truth, but it would take me until I was on my death bed to tell him anything. I had accidentally slipped up once when I was drunk, but now that person was dead and gone, and that was that.

"One day, Dallas, I'll be your age, and then I'll be older than you," I said, pushing my hair out of my face. "I wonder if I'll be able to remember you then."

Sometimes, I forced myself to live in the past so that I would never forget any part of it. Some people think that's a morbid way to live, but I find comfort in it, and these days, comfort is a rare thing to come by, so when I find it, I hold onto it as much as I can. Whenever I thought about Dally's icy blue eyes and his snow white hair, I'm reminded of the Winter, and I feel some comfort in that.

I set an empty whiskey bottle by his headstone and walked away, hating the fact that Spring was just around the corner.

* * *

Earlier that Fall, I had taken the liberty to stop by Dallas's ex-girlfriend's house. I'm not sure what drove me there, or why I felt the need to poke my head around that bitch's house, but when I sauntered up her porch steps and heard the muffled sobs coming from inside, I couldn't help myself. I knocked once on the door before stepping on in, my gaze finding Sylvia's frame curled up on the couch with various bottles of liquor surrounding her.

Her piercing eyes landed on my smaller frame, and she dabbed at her eyes. "What do you want, huh?" she barked out. "Come to make some snide remark? Come to mock me? Did ya?"

That was the thing with Sylvia. She was always jumping down everyone's throats and making all of her issues their issues, and trying to romanticize victimization. Sure, she had been Dallas's girlfriend, even though their relationship could hardly qualify as such, but it wasn't none of my business.

"No," I answered, and flopped on the couch beside her, reaching for a bottle of cherry-flavored Dekuyper brandy and taking a swig. "Came to see how you're holdin' up."

Sylvia's green eyes were enough to answer that question, though. She glared over at me, wiping her nose and running a hand through her matted hair. She didn't look good, but I think a lot of it was the effect of the alcohol running rich through her insides. See, Sylvia was a real tuff chick—nothing got to her, so I was surprised she was letting Dallas Winston's death do just that. Me an' Sylvia weren't real close or nothin', her being a few years older than me, but we were part of the same crowd, and just like the guys, us girls stuck together.

So even though I wasn't particularly fond of Sylvia, I felt some kind of responsibility to check in on her and make sure she hadn't done something stupid.

"Well, ya fuckin' priss, how does it _look_ like I'm holdin' up?" Sylvia asked, rolling her green eyes and pushing herself further back into the cushions.

"Looks like you've aged ten years over night."

"Go to hell, Angela."

A smirk crept along my lips. "You want me to give Dallas a message when I get there?"

It took all of a few seconds before Sylvia busted out laughing, her body shaking as she giggled away almost hysterically. I merely stared at her—she was something else. But then she broke down again, and she was crying herself ugly, her face falling on my shoulder and her arms wrapping around me as tears spilled down her face. She really was a terrible crier, but so was I, not that I really ever cried. She was a pitiful sight, though, Sylvia, and for a greaser girl, I thought that it took an awful amount of nerve to cry in front of someone—someone like me.

Instead of criticizing her, I let my fingers run through her hair, gently trying to detangle the knotted nest it had become. I could feel her breath on my shoulder, warm and rapid. She was attempting to compose herself again, but I knew it wouldn't work—she was too hungover and too upset, so I simply let her cry herself out until she calmed down enough to breathe steadily.

What I didn't expect was for her lips to land on mine, soft and smooth. She kissed me, though, letting her lips linger over mine for a good few seconds until I responded. I ain't exactly sure why Sylvia did it, but some part of me knew that she was looking for the same thing that I had been searching for my entire life—comfort, something to make everything else disappear. But we were both desperate for any human contact, hungry for affection, to know that neither one of us was alone in this godforsaken world.

I had finally found someone who had something in common with me—wicked desperation.

* * *

 _For although they knew God, they neither glorified him as God nor gave thanks to him, but their thinking became futile and their foolish hearts were darkened._ —Romans 1:21

"Angela, are you paying attention?" Mrs. Rand asked, glaring down at me through her beady eyes, her thin and nasally voice cool and sharp. "Do I need to send you to Mr. Davis's office?"

"For what?" I responded innocently, giving her a look of my own as I dragged my bottom lip through my teeth. She hated my sarcasm more than she hated me, I was sure, but I hated her all the same. "I ain't doin' nothin' wrong."

Mrs. Rand pursed her lips. "You _aren't_ doing anything at all, Miss Shepard. Now, are you going to participate in class?"

"Depends."

She didn't like that answer apparently. "Go to the office. I've had enough of your insubordination this week. I'll be calling your mother, too."

I almost laughed at her idiocy, but strolled out of the classroom with a bounce in my step and a smirk on my lips. I wasn't even sure why I was attending school anymore, and I was positive that half of my teachers were just waiting for the day when I followed in my brothers' footsteps and dropped out. Lord, it would probably just make them all celebrate—they hated me.

I didn't bother to stop in the office, but I did walk out of the school. You would think as a girl in the eighth grade I would be attempting to make something of myself, right? Thing is, I no longer cared about school work or graduating, or anything about school. There were plenty of other ways I could make something of myself, and I didn't need a high school diploma to get me there.

"Angela, wait up," a voice rang out, and I turned back to see Marielle Thompson jogging in order to catch up to me. "You skippin' out this period, too?"

I feigned a smile, not bothering to tell her about Mrs. Rand. "Yeah, and I ain't goin' back."

"Me either," Marielle replied, lighting up a cigarette and offering one to me. "In fact, next year when I turn sixteen, I'm going to drop out." I hummed thoughtfully while Marielle continued on. "Angela, what do you want to do when you get older?"

Betty Morris's words came to mind, then, and I wasn't sure why. She was always going on about my looks and how I could be someone famous one day, but honestly, I think she was out of her mind. A lot of people around town always told me how beautiful I was, how I was movie-star gorgeous, and there were times when I believed them. I wasn't conceited or nothin', but I can tell you straight up that I'm a pretty girl, and I'm proud of what I've got, little as it is.

Subconsciously, I glanced down at myself, wondering why my tits hadn't grown yet. I'd be fifteen in a few months, and still, nothing about my physique had changed. I still looked liked I was twelve, and to tell you the flat out truth, I was embarrassed. I ain't sure how so many people thought I could pass as a movie-star, even if I am pretty. My face was too young, even if my chin was more angular than round, my eyes were too heavily coated in make-up, and my body was androgynous and petite.

"Angela?"

I snapped back to reality. "I ain't sure. Does it matter?"

I didn't hear Marielle's answer, though, because across the lot was Sylvia, her gaze on mine. I hadn't really seen her since the Fall, not that I wanted to. I felt bad for her, but she was still an outrageous bitch, sleeping around with different guys every week and getting hammered every night. She was a prime example of what I _didn't_ want to be when I got older.

I felt a darkness creeping around my heart as I considered my future. Who would I be in a year from then? Who would I be in two, or three, or several? Everyone was always going on about how you should start planning for your future while you were still young before it was too late, but how young is young, and how late is late? I had always been an outcast, a reputation following my every move, and I was as disliked as the yellow taffy of Wrigley's Starburst.

What did it matter what I planned for myself?

Everyone was right, I supposed—I was movie-star pretty, but Betty Morris had been wrong—I wasn't exactly cut out for Hollywood. Giving it some thought made me seriously contemplate running away, but I didn't. Something was holding me back, although I wasn't sure what, and that always made me feel awfully sick, as if I just wasn't meant to leave.

Whatever the case, I was pretty sure that I would die in that shithole town with those shithole people, and not one person would be sad or filled with dread when I was gone. I couldn't even imagine how many of those people would show up at my funeral. It was a morbid thought, perhaps, but I was an exceedingly morbid girl, and I'd be damned if I was called shallow.

* * *

 **A tremendous _thank you_ for all of the feedback on this little story! You guys are the best! :3  
**


	3. Sorrow of Heart

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. **

* * *

**sorrow:** a feeling of deep distress caused by loss, disappointment, or other misfortune suffered by oneself or others

 _A glad heart makes a cheerful face, but by sorrow of heart the spirit is crushed._ —Proverbs 15:13

It happened right before my fifteenth birthday.

I was asleep in bed, the sheets tangled around my body while I lay on my back, one hand resting across my torso, the other limp at my side. In my mind, I feel hands roaming over my body, feel a hot mouth pressing against my lips and moving across my jaw and down my neck. A breathy sigh fell from my own mouth as my arms wrapped around the man who was igniting a flame inside of me. I found myself pushed back on a bed before he hovered over me, the faint smell of cigarettes and alcohol surrounding us, and I felt like I slowly slipping away—maybe I was.

The mysterious man's calloused hands practically tore my blouse open before his mouth attached itself to my chest, and all I could do was lay there like a rag-doll while he worked. When I gathered enough courage to open my eyes, the dream-like trance was gone immediately as the pale blue irises bore directly into my own, shaggy blond hair tickling my sensitive flesh.

Instantaneously, my eyes shot open in the dark, and I could feel the perspiration moistening my body as I breathed in and out, counting the pounding and rapid beats of my heart. It felt as though it was going to pound straight through my chest, so I sat up carefully, eyes flashing around the bedroom as I made sure that my door was closed tight. I allowed myself to indulge in my latest dream, one I'm certain that I'll never forget as long as I live. It was surreal, so much of it, and I wanted to believe that it didn't happen to me, but the damp sensation between my legs refused to let me pretend otherwise.

I nibbled my bottom lip, the tingles down below becoming more uncomfortable. It was probably sick to dream like that about him— _him_ of all people—but I couldn't help myself. The first time I slipped my hand between my legs, I was a hot mess, literally. It felt strange, and I wasn't sure that I entirely liked it, but then, I began to relax, picturing his face in my mind, eyes slithering closed as I continued my pace, a gnawing feeling in the back of my head telling me that this was so wrong, so _very_ fucking wrong.

I'll be taking a first class ticket to hell when my time's up, I'm sure.

* * *

An intense amount of sorrow filled my otherwise void heart as I stood in the cemetery, yet again, and I really had to wonder why I'm so fucked up. Most people would feel weird visiting that place, but not me, nope. I find the most morbid amount of comfort one can while I sit in front of Dallas Winston's grave, aimlessly staring ahead as if I'm stuck in some kind of trance.

It's sickening. I'm sick. This fucking place is sick.

You know what else is sick? The fact that this jerk is buried six feet below me, but somehow is able to bring my subconscious mind to life during the night. I almost gagged at the thought alone, a nauseating feeling of utter despair catching inside of me. I'm pretty certain that I'll never sleep right again after that, but I hate myself for almost looking forward to my dreams from that point on.

Told you I'm sick.

* * *

I decided to clean out my room one afternoon. It was a crisp Autumn day, so I took the liberty to open the windows and air the place out. I imagined that my mother, wherever the hell she was, would have a fit if she saw that. I ain't sure why, but she hated whenever the natural light shined through the house. In my opinion, it really made the place seem less dreary. Surprisingly enough, I'm the one who preferred the light seeping through—it almost made the place feel like a home. _Almost_.

It's when I pulled the shit out from under my bed that I nearly vomit. There, placed inside an old bag, is the same drugs I sold to Betty Morris before she overdosed on them and kill herself. It took me a minute before I could actually react properly, and by that, I mean carry the shit to the bathroom. My hands were shaky and becoming moist with sweat, and I swore under my breath as I dropped the small container onto the sink counter, my breathing rapid.

I could see Betty's face in my mind, her skin a sickly color as foam spills out of her mouth, her eyes rolling around like a fucking lunatic, and all I can do is run. I stood in the bathroom, though, hands supporting my frame on the counter as I recalled the incident, a voice in my head telling me that I'm going to hell and there's nothing I can do to save myself.

The pills stared up at me in the bag, and I considered popping one, or two, or ten. Fuck. I just want the voices to go away, I want it all to stop. My world is a spiraling disaster, and I picture a car crashing into my mom's vehicle while her and I are on our way home from Sunday mass, me dying beside her in the passenger seat, and then skipping merrily into the light, except this time, something shoves me down into the fiery pits of hell, and I sink lower and lower until I'm suffocating, my cries for help falling on deaf ears.

I tell myself that I could just end it right then and there, and I would no longer have to deal with the sorrows of life. I'm crushed on the inside, practically dead already, so what's the fucking point? As I went to reach for one, tongue running over my chapped lips, a voice called out my name, and I snap back into reality, collapsing on the tiled floor, my vision blurring.

"Angela?" Tim's voice echoed about the tiny shithole of a house, and I ignored him, wishing that I would just die. _Just let me die._

But God apparently isn't feeling too much mercy for me that day, because I didn't die, and I could hear Tim's boots getting closer to the bathroom. I'm pretty sure that I was seconds away from passing out, but when I hear Tim's breath literally catch in his throat, his boots obnoxiously loud on the floor beside me, I begin throwing up.

"What the fuck did you do?" Tim yelled, and in the quickest fashion that I'd ever witnessed him move, he was suddenly beside me on the floor, his hands flipping me over, back bending forward as he pulled my hair back.

And then it hits me that he thinks I'm doped up.

Instead of saying anything, I end up crying like a fucking drama queen. I couldn't help it, though, and I hate myself even more for becoming so weak. I'm neither weak or shallow. Sick and demented, and probably able to be classified as a murderer—

The contents of my stomach seemed to come up beyond my control, and I wretched and wretched and wretched while Tim held me over the side of the tub, and it took me a second to realize that he's got two fingers jammed down my throat. The mucus doesn't stop coming up, and I had to push Tim's arm away while I spit up the remainder of vile. I stared down at the floor of the tub, watching the water wash away everything, and I see Betty's face staring back at me with such hatred, I began to cry all over again.

I thought about how ridiculous Tim would look if one of his boys walked in and saw him like this with me—forcing me to puke my guts up until my throat burns raw, the acid in my mouth only making it worse—but I know Tim would pull a heater on anyone who dared talk lousy about him, or me, or even Curly, and I had no doubt he'd pump them up if they blabbed about it. I'd always pictured my oldest brother as a tough son-of-a-bitch, a mean and wild cat, a little fucked up, too, but I knew he had my back.

At that particular moment, though, he looked like he might just pummel me. He thought that I was stoned, trippin' out, but I ain't, and I nearly fell back against the side of tub once he let me go, standing up to inspect the dope on the counter that killed Betty Morris several months back.

"Are you fuckin' insane, Angela?" he asked, glaring hardly at me. "The hell is wrong with you?" His hand is running through his slicked back hair. "I oughta beat the shit outta you."

But all I could do was sob myself ugly, like a fucking idiot. "I didn't—" Ever tried speaking while you are in the middle of crying _and_ hiccuping? It ain't pretty. But the next words that rolled off of my tongue caused the place to become deathly silent. "I . . . I killed her, Tim. I killed . . . Betty." And the tears only poured out heavier and heavier. "I just wanna die."

 _God, just let me die._

And then I did faint.

* * *

I turned fifteen.

I don't tell anyone that I'm closer to death than I've ever been. Me an' Tim don't speak for a while, and I can't exactly blame him for not wanting to. I don't, either, but that's mainly because I was dreaming of being fucked by his dead best friend, and Betty Morris was staring back at me in the mirror every day. It's a sick cycle, one that I was stuck in and couldn't get out of, and some part of me didn't want to.

I don't return to school in the Fall, but I visit the cemetery every day like a fucking ritual. One day, after spending a ton of time withering in self-pity and loathing, I head to the Curtis's house in search of something that I desperately want. I ain't even sure they have one, but it's the only hope I've got, so I take the leisure walk to their falling apart house (not that mine is in any better amount of condition) and knock once on the door before stepping inside.

The oldest brother stepped out of the kitchen, brows raising as he stared at me, as if to ask me silently what in the fuck I was doin' there. Me an' Darry didn't know each other all that well, but he had been in my house a few times over the years, so we weren't exactly strangers, either. Still, he stared at me like I _was_ one, intruding in on him and his castle.

"What are you doing here, Angela?" he asked, his voice booming through the house.

I licked my lips, looking up at him cautiously. "I need a picture."

Then he looked flat out confused—probably thought that I was fucked up on something, but Darrel's always been like that, the one with a hard head and a practical mind. But he'd be dead wrong if he thought I was still dealing or taking, though I'd be a liar if I said wasn't suffering a hangover right then. Sometimes, I got like that—too immersed in my own mind to deal with reality.

Darrel's brows knitted together as he wrinkled his nose. "Of what?"

"Dallas Winston."

"What for?"

I quickly got tired of twenty questions, so I made up a lie and told him I was making a collage. I ain't sure he bought it, but it don't matter none. When I want something, I get it, and not even Darrel Curtis Jr. is gonna stand in the way of that. He shuffled through a photo album, looking incredibly annoyed about my presence, but I don't care. It took a few minutes, but finally, he found a picture and handed it to me, telling me to get on home.

The picture was taken last Summer, a few months before Dallas died. I stared at it for a long time just taking everything about him in. He wasn't even good-looking, I can tell ya that much, but there was something charismatic about him, and I'm sure it's the underlying devilish smirk that's dancing across his sinful lips. He's fucking ugly. I don't recall ever being romantically interested in him before, so for the life of me, I can't fathom why in the hell he's fucking me in my dreams late at night, and why I like it so much.

More times than none in that month did I wake up in the middle of the night just to relieve myself of his assault. It was the most I'd ever touched myself, ever explored myself. I wondered what it would really feel like to be with a man, _really_ be with one. The only fucked up and twisted experience I've got is what Billy Walkins did to me, and I hate him so much, I wish him dead.

Nobody would ever hurt me again.

* * *

Marielle stared at me, a dark ring around her right eye where her daddy hit her good. She had a fucked up home life, too—she knew the score. I smoked a joint and refused to share; I needed it more than I needed anything right then. Marielle was goin' on about how good Jimmy Napoleon was in the sack, and I could only scowl in jealousy. It ain't like I could tell anyone that I was never properly fucked, and what makes it sicker is the fact that I wished Winston fucked me before he checked out.

I had heard enough stories from Sylvia and a few other girls who had the pleasure of playing "hide the sausage" with him. Realistically, Dallas wouldn't have fucked me even if I'd begged him to, and it wasn't because I was ugly or nothin'—believe me, I was damn good-looking—but age played a role in the game, too, and Dallas wasn't about riding girls that much younger than him, even if he had liked to crack derogatory jokes.

"Do you at least have a cigarette on ya, Angela?" Marielle asked, sighing.

I had to roll my eyes—she was such a nuisance. "Yeah, here."

She lit up quicker than a prostitute pulling her her panties off. I watched her while she exhaled, her body beginning to viably relax, and felt sorry for her. Marielle was a tough chick, but she would break eventually, I knew she would. I almost wished that Betty was there with me—I could handle being talked down to like a little kid, but I couldn't stand Marielle's pessimism, even if it turned into one of her scandalous tales.

"Remember when I asked you what you wanted to be when you got older?" she asked, exhaling. Her eyes met mine, and she raised an eyebrow. "I think I know what I'm gonna do."

I wasn't interested at all, but I nodded along anyway. "What's that?"

"I'm gonna be in Hollywood."

It took all of my strength to not throw the fuck up right then and there.

* * *

 _A merry heart doeth good like a medicine: but a broken spirit drieth the bones._ —Proverbs 17:22

I'd went to church the following Sunday. A lot of people that knew who I was refused to sit near me, so I occupied the pew all the way in the back by my lonesome. I told myself that I didn't care, that the looks the other women gave me didn't bother me at all, but there was something pivoting inside of me, causing some foreign feeling to take over my senses.

Pastor Rollins preached away for an hour, and I sat there, taking in every word he had said. I stared up at the large cross that hung in front of the stained glass windows, trying to remember myself as a small child sitting in that same room with Ma right beside me. The memory seemed so far away, and I really had to wonder if any of it was real—if she had really taken me, Curly, and Tim to church as kids. I know it sounds silly, but I needed reassurance.

I was too absorbed in my thoughts to notice Pastor Rollins sitting beside me. He was an older man, his hair white, blue eyes kind and pure. He was so gentle looking, and I had to wonder if he could see into my soul or something. I don't know why, but I always felt incredibly insecure when Pastor Rollins looked at me, even though he didn't mean nothin' by it. It took me a minute to realize that the service was over, along with the fact that I was the only one left in the room, too.

"I'm surprised to see you here, Angela," Pastor Rollins said after a minute. "You haven't attended a Sunday service in a few years."

I licked my lips nervously. "Yeah, I stopped comin.'"

He nodded, a thoughtful look in his eyes. "I know."

"Oh."

"You know, Angela," he continued, almost sounding tired, "God's house is always open to those who have faith."

"You always say that, Pastor."

And that was a fact. Even when I was a little girl attending church services, Pastor Rollins had always ended with that exact statement. When he said it _that_ time, though, there was a different sound in his voice than usual, as if he was clarifying it for me, or encouraging me to believe him. Truth was, I hadn't had a whole lot of faith in anything for a long, long time.

Pastor Rollins only smiled. "And there is a reason for that, Angela." Turning back ahead, he leaned back a little. "I saw you in the local cemetery last weekend, and I also saw you there the other day during my evening walk."

"I find peace there," was the only answer I could come up with.

"Or someone." He doesn't bother to elaborate, but I picked up on the underlying words.

I couldn't help the scowl that formed on my face. I felt like I was being interrogated or something, and even though I liked Pastor Rollins, I couldn't bring myself to talk about anything. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I stood up quickly, hoping that I didn't look like a complete idiot as I bid the man a farewell and practically ran out of the church.

* * *

I took a good, long look in the mirror at myself. I was too small for my age—everyone said it. Ma, Tim, Curly, Marielle, Leon, Sylvia, and a few others. I glanced down at my nearly flat chest, before pushing my arms together in front of my body to give myself an imaginary cleavage. It's almost sick, how much I yearned to be touched, to be felt up, to know what it really felt like to have sex.

I ran my hands over the sides of my arms, almost feeling a little dirty as I explored my skin. Running my tongue across the bridge of my teeth, I let my hands slide over my chest, eyes closing as I imagined someone else doing it for me. The dream-like tranquility allowed me to envision myself elsewhere, to imagine that I wasn't in that disgusting house or that dirty bathroom. I don't stop my imagination or my hands when they roam south, my bottom lip getting caught between my teeth as I touched my most intimate area, surprised at how good I could make myself feel.

There were all kinds of things that I thought about when I made myself vulnerable, and the biggest one of all was how much I loathed myself. That was my drive forward, if you can understand that. How the fuck can one so good-looking have so much self-hatred?

The water from the shower doesn't do me any good. The bills weren't paid which meant that there wasn't any hot water to enjoy a bath with, so I was left to stand in the falling ice droplets from the shower head, goosebumps forming all across my skin and causing my teeth to chatter. I didn't care, though. It allowed me to feel something, something a lot different than physical pleasure—it allowed me to know that I _could_ feel, and that was exhilarating all in itself.

* * *

A joint was secured between my lips as I stared at the setting sun in the distance. The colors were all mixed together in the sky, the rays reflecting in every which way. I inhaled slowly, but not even the happy plant was enough to relax me thoroughly. I thought about what I'd said to Tim a month back and wondered if he'd ever speak to me again.

It was funny in an almost diabolical way. Tim was a gang leader, had been jailed, had done some pretty fucked up shit, but I had _killed_ someone—me. I could almost hear Winston's laughter in the soft breeze, but I had to remind myself that I was alone, and nobody was laughing except for the devil. The screen door slammed, and I glanced up as Curly took a seat beside me, lighting up a cigarette.

He eyed the joint between my fingers. "You sellin' grass again?"

"No," I snapped, and took another drag. It was almost weird to see Curly outta jail so soon, but he had been let out early on good behavior. "You see Tim around?"

Curly snorted. "He left this mornin', said he had to take care of something with Brumly's outfit."

"What an ass."

My brother merely shot me a look, rolling his eyes. "Heard you dropped outta school, Angel. Did you tell Tim about _that_ , huh?"

"I ain't said nothin', and neither are you."

"But you'll have to go back soon," he pointed out, almost sounding serious for once. "You know damn well that you ain't allowed to drop without a consent form, and neither Ma or Tim are gonna sign it for ya."

I knew he was right, but I didn't give a shit. My thoughts were elsewhere, just like I wished that I could be, somewhere far away. The faded stop sign on the corner of the road and the fallen street sign let me know that I was _home_ , though—there was no use in pretending otherwise. I wondered what anyone would do if I just decided to get up and walk straight out into the middle of oncoming traffic . . .

Curly flicked his finished cigarette onto our shitty lawn and smirked. "There's a party downtown tonight by the Ribbon. You comin'?"

I shook my head. "Not tonight." And then a sigh fell past my lips. "Curly, do you remember ever goin' to church when you were little?"

The jerk stared at me like I was insane, which I wasn't. "Not really, why?"

"Nothing," I respond, and stand up, making my way back inside the house. I could feel Curly's eyes on me, but he don't come after me or say anything, instead making his way off of the property and heading down the road.

I wondered if I was losing my mind.

* * *

Dallas's picture was placed inside of my bible, which was under my pillow. It was the only thing I had to remind myself that I was real, that I once had a childhood, and that there was some point in my life when I was actually good, once upon a time. I didn't know what the hell I was at fifteen, but I knew that it couldn't be good. I wasn't good. My life wasn't good, my family wasn't good, so what the fuck was I when everything all narrowed down?

I decided to stop this unusual obsession with Winston, placing the bible itself inside my nightstand. It was safe there, I figured—ain't nobody gonna come snoopin' through my stuff.

It took me a while to realize how peaceful the house was at night when nobody was around. I could just lay in bed and stare at the ceiling and think, and I think about a lot of things. I had a lot of dark and morbid thoughts for a girl my age, but I liked to think that I was unique or something. What else was I supposed to do?

My peace don't last too long, unfortunately, because it was interrupted by the sound of somebody walking into the house. Usually, I wouldn't give two shits about who came in—people were always doin' it anyway, at all hours of the day—but that night, I decided to see who it was. I peaked out my bedroom door, a bit relieved to see Ma's head of light hair through the kitchen entry.

She took one look at me as she sucked on a cigarette, before shaking her head. "Thought you an' your brothers would be out."

"They are," was my brisk response, but she rolled her eyes anyway. "Tim is taking care of business, and Curly went to a party."

A snort. "And you didn't? Can't imagine why, there ain't nothin' for you here."

I considered her words for a few seconds. She had been right, though, there was nothin' for me in that house, in that town, in that state. There was nothing for me anywhere—this was the conclusion I had come to long ago. Still, the haunting thought that I was never escaping that house, or that town, or that state played a big importance in my life, too. I thought for a long time about everyone I knew who had died in that shithole town, and I knew that Ma was gonna live her last day there as well.

Tim would die young, that much I could tell you, and Curly would, too. Tim spent too much of his time and energy trying to settle his warfare with God that he didn't bother to live life right, and Curly just thought that Tim himself was God, following him around and trying to be like him the best that he could.

It didn't matter for me, though.

Pastor Rollins had been right.

Whenever I visited the cemetery, I _was_ visiting someone. I was visiting myself, or rather, the place where I would be buried some time in the future.

Ma was right, too.

There was nothing for me—at all.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading! Feedback is always appreciated! :3  
**


	4. Cage of Knowledge

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. **

* * *

**knowledge:** facts, information, and skills acquired by a person through experience or education; the theoretical or practical understanding of a subject

 _The heart of the prudent getteth knowledge; and the ear of the wise seeketh knowledge._ —Proverbs 18:15

No one understands me.

The intensity of the bathroom light breathed down upon me, the heated bulb illuminating shadows across the walls and tiles. The sound of water filling the tub has stopped, leaving nothing but the conscious tone of breathing. I stood in front of the sink, the mirror steamed up and the walls emitting condensation. Staring at my foggy reflection, I realized the only thing standing between myself is time, though it wasn't enough—not nearly enough to let go. I froze, instantaneously confounded by the reminiscence of my past—or the girl looking back at me. She's a burden of memories I had yet to reconcile with, and _she_ only serves as a reminder of things that should be rectified.

It burned a hole through my chest and set my mind into a deep cage of knowledge and suffocation. I could only stare at myself, hard like. I wondered how I've made it this far, how I haven't just cut things short; it's all a violent nightmare, a trap I'll never find a way out of—a wondrous fantasy that remains forsaken.

Second by second, I removed an article of my clothing, and every vulnerability left me restless. There was nothing that I wanted more than to just let it go—let it all go. There is nothing more that I want to do but forget, but forgetting means first confronting what needs to be forgotten in order to let it go, and some part of me can only bury the memories deeper into my soul, leaving them to continue eating and tearing away at my life source until I become nothing.

I am nothing—nothing at all.

The bath water was warm for once, my movements causing it to lap away at my smooth skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. I could feel myself slipping under the more I let go of my own consciousness, the rage still pulsating beneath the exterior, looming like a tidal wave above the current. I laid solid in place, eyes closed, imaginary cement holding my feet and keeping me grounded. Hands ghosted up and down my sides, every hair on my body standing up at once, the prickly sensation letting me know that I was still alive—awake and conscious, but utterly comatose.

I wished that I could just drown, the waters building up around me as I sink lower and lower beneath the surface, the shallowness of the water enveloping me and sucking me down further as it rises. The feeling can only shoot up my spine in double time, and then I'm safeguarded.

I'm lost in an oasis of time and self, vulnerability and authenticity, the girl in the mirror vanished and long forgotten—a Polaroid image of what used to be.

Sometimes, I don't understand myself.

* * *

Mrs. Newsome was tall and lithe, her green eyes sunken in around her pudgy face, always looking at me like I was the devil himself. Her hair was dark, frizzed strands of white curling around the sides of her wrinkled face and pointed ears. She stood out to me because of her odd physique, and even though she hated me more than any other student, I admired her. Most of the kids referred to her as a wicked old woman, even nicknaming her Mrs. "Nuisance". Then again, the hag's voice _was_ like a crackling whip to anyone's eardrums when she got hacked off enough to raise it.

I was pissed—pissed because Curly had ratted me out to Tim, who made sure I returned to school in late October. Me an' Tim still weren't on good speaking terms, and even when I told him where he could stick his concerns, he only stared hardly at me and told me my ass would be at Will Rogers High School come Monday morning.

I had spent an hour just staring at myself in the morning before Tim drove me to school; I had to make sure that I looked somewhat decent, after all. I might have hated going to school, might have despised just about every person there, but I'd be damned if I didn't look good. It was funny, how much I hated, how much hatred swelled in my veins, though my exterior was always flourishing. I would always be pretty on the outside—always. Guess that's the only fucking thing one can be satisfied with when they ain't got nothin' else to give.

"Miss Shepard," Mrs. Newsome called, slapping a decrepit and withered hand down on my desk. Her eyes were narrowed. "Are you paying attention, or do you require a trip to the office to sort yourself out?" she asked, tone clipped.

I only gave her a sweet smile, one that made most sane people cringe. Remember how I said that Mrs. Newsome was admirable? This was one of those times when it really shined through, and for a woman like her, that was really saying something, considering the circumstances. One would think that after dealing with all the hoods that she had dealt with in the past, I would be a cake job, but no. I was more than just the cake—I was the fucking icing on top and the decorative pieces, too.

My own hand slid over hers as I spoke. "I'm always listening to you, Mrs. Newsome."

Something in her piercing orbs flickered, and for a moment, I could register fear. Told you, she looked at me like I was the devil in disguise, and I had to faintly wonder if this woman even knew what the devil was capable of. Perhaps she should try spending a day—or a night—on my side of town, maybe spend a night in my bedroom to really catch a glimpse of him. My own thoughts were a living hell, after all, a place where I was both comforted and made to feel afraid.

"Then you won't find a problem in answering my question," came the sharp response, her hand pulling away from mine as if I were infected with some contagious disease.

The smile on my lips could only spread wider. "But I just did."

Imagine, if you will, one of those sickly sweet, sugar-coated tones, the kinds that make you inwardly cringe, the kinds that make you question if the person you're talking to is safe or not—that's the kind I always used for Mrs. Newsome. Having her for a teacher the year prior to this one only made her hate me more, gave her time to build that hatred up, and every time she stared at me, every time her eyes landed on me, I couldn't help but continue to admire her.

I could admire anyone who hated me more than I hated myself.

* * *

"I want to shoot up," Marielle said, exhaling some smoke from her mouth. "I want to know what it feels like to really . . . to really feel something."

I could only scowl at her idiotic words. "So do it, you fucking moron."

Her eyes cracked open as she glared at me. "I heard that you ain't exactly a saint, Angela." Her smile twisted a little. "I heard that you ain't a stranger to sellin', neither, that you've used. You gonna tell me that's a lie?"

The thing I hated about Marielle—other than the fact that she was a bag of pessimism that kept filling up but never got taken out—was the fact that she always stuck her big-ass nose where it didn't belong, like she was doing right then. I always thought that Marielle was jealous of me, but I couldn't blame her if she was. Between her and me, I was the better looking one. Maybe it was just a fad of mine, to pin stark envy on the other emotions of people so I felt better about myself, but what did I care?

I inhaled deeply, a cancer stick lodged securely between my middle and index fingers. "And what if it's true?" I countered, dipping my head back, the sun glinting across my face. "What do you care?"

"Well I don't," she answered, sounding skeptical. "But . . . what's it like?"

Hmm, what's it like? What's it like? What's it like? I could ask myself the same exact question in a million and one different ways and come back with a million and one different answers. It really had to depend on my mood that day—it would determine whether or not I liked it or not. I'm not crazy, mind you, this is just how I coped with things—it made them seem easier. It was the knowledge of this that kept me sane, let me know that I wasn't headed to the loony bin.

I gave Marielle an answer, though. "Depends, I guess."

"On what?"

My turn to smile now. "On what you can handle feeling."

It went silent after that, and I didn't bother to sneak a glance at Marielle's face. I knew what would be there—confusion, desperation, the need to know. I couldn't explain it, though, because I wasn't sure how to explain it myself. I felt things a lot differently than most people, probably in a more fucked up way than what was considered "normal". Looking at me from what was considered a "sane" person's point of view, I would be accused of being immorally wrong and defective.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

I could only stare out into the distance, the rumbling of a freight train approaching us reaching my ears, the ground seeming to vibrate beneath me. My tongue ran across the roof of my mouth, the finished cigarette dropping from my fingers and distinguishing between the stones. A horn blew as the little train drew closer, and I couldn't help the soft grin that brushed my lips.

"Exactly."

* * *

Sleeping, or trying to, leaves me restless for quite a few days, and instead of trying to find some form of comfort in my own bed, I consider on going down to the Ribbon to find some company instead—company in the form of a bottle. The last thing I need, though, is for Curly to rat me out for hanging on some guys again, all of which led to Tim knocking Malcolm Elias's tooth out for "touching me in inappropriate places", not that I really minded—I was half crocked anyway.

I shot the idea of going to the Ribbon down, though, letting my eyes drift closed. I was met with utter darkness, save for the little rays of light in different colors shifting behind my lids, creating a kaleidoscope effect through it, leaving me to wonder why I couldn't see anything else. My dreams otherwise were heavy and rather unpleasant, or sometimes rather pleasant. It could have been considered nice when Winston's ghostly hands were feeling me up as his lips captured my own in this fucking fantasy land my subconscious had created.

But as I allowed myself to seep further into its assault, the sensations only became more alive, every move and breath and feeling forcing me to wake up. It was all the way down into my toes, fingers curling around the sheets as my knees bent up, lips parting ever so little. These dreams felt more than real, more than just a dream, but they're a living, unholy nightmare, and when I can finally wake myself up, I jolt up in the bed panting for air.

I officially thought that I was going crazy when something shifted by my bedroom door, and in the darkness, a silhouette moved, the shadow reflecting across the walls. My heart stopped in my chest, and I found that I was frozen. I briefly allowed myself to wonder if this was death finally coming to take me away, but in the dim lighting creeping through the window, I barely make out a head of blond hair, and I want to scream, or die, or—

"What the fuck?" I cried, cornering myself back on the mattress, repeatedly telling myself that this was all just a dream, that I wasn't insane, that I was bound to really "wake up" at any second.

But it never came, and when the figure turned to face me, I was able to see the bloody holes adorning his chest, dark red liquid spilling from them and down his torso. I was too frozen to cry, too scared to even move, and I wondered if this was my own personal hell. Never witnessing Dallas postmortem, I had to assume this is what he would have looked like after being shot up by the cops—bloody, violent, cold, desperate, and oddly triumphant.

I can't stand to look at him, though. "Go away."

The only conclusion that I could come up with is that I finally went insane, that I finally let reality and fantasy blend, and that I can no longer tell the difference between them. I seek to know the truth of everything, though, why any of it would happen, but the answers only fall on deaf ears, and after squeezing my eyes shut until I saw nothing but red splotches, I was left in a room alone.

It started when I was fifteen—the slipping of my sanity.

Everything merely spins around me in its own oscillating cycle, leaving me behind in a past that I'm not sure is even real, in thoughts that I can no longer decipher. I don't even know if I am real at this point, and God help me, the pain of this realization claws away at me viciously, and I come to the conclusion that I am my own persecutor—these thoughts my persecution. I thought about Marielle's words, and I also wonder what it would be like to feel something again.

Anything but this.

* * *

I popped two sticks of gum into my mouth, allowing the mint flavor to mix around with my saliva and rest on my tongue before swallowing. Teachers always hated when students chewed gum during class—I think there might even be some lame ass rule against it or something. I did it anyway, though, mostly just to get on their nerves. Mrs. Sphere was the only one who ever asked me to spit it out, so I had casually waltzed up to the garbage can that was in front of the classroom by the door, pulled one half of the gum through my teeth to rip it, and continued on chewing the other half.

I liked chewing gum, though, mostly because it tasted good and gave me something to do during class, which didn't involve listening to the teachers drone on and on and on.

During one of Mrs. Sphere's lectures, Suzy Richards leaned over and tapped my shoulder. "Angela," she called. When I was looking at her through slitted eyes, aimlessly chomping on my gum like a cow, she continued on. "Dean Mathis is having a party tonight. You in?"

I thought about Dean Mathis—he was cute alright with fair skin, blond hair, blue eyes . . . Oh, yeah, I considered him good. Real good. In fact, I found myself wondering what it would be like if he fucked me, really fucked me hard. He was only a little older than me at . . . seventeen. Two years, not too bad actually. But it wasn't just him I was placing in my mind, but his looks would suffice, I figured, even if the personality and everything else was virtually the same.

Rolling my tongue over my lips, I turned back ahead. "Sure."

* * *

I might have been young, but I told myself that I know what I'm doing, that I have the knowledge to know and understand—that I was wise enough to rationalize the consequences, and when I stand in the bathroom later that evening, staring at my reflection as I let my hand work myself over, I imagine what it will feel like when Dean fucks me. That was the plan, I told myself, to make Dean notice me, to make him want me. I didn't love him, hell, I barely knew him, but he was the closest thing I was going to ever get to what I really wanted—to make those fucked up dreams a reality.

When I was finished freshening up, giving myself a thrice over, I headed out of the house, ignoring the yelling of Curly and Leon, shaking my head at Ma, who cowers in the corner. She knew that Leon hit us, she knew that he sometimes felt me up—she didn't do shit about it. She didn't fucking care about us, only what Leon provided for her and that shithole house.

If I were her, I would have married him and then buried him six feet under. Then I would have gotten his money and everything else, fled the scene, and called it a day.

But we're all going to hell anyway, so what does it matter?

* * *

It didn't take long to get Dean where I wanted him. All it took was a few drinks and then he was the one coming onto me. It was funny—I wanted him, wanted him bad, but I played hard to get. I let go of my thoughts for a while, trying not to think about what I was doing, what had happened to me, and focused on Dean and me, hoping he fucked as good as the rumors relayed. If I was Sylvia, I would lead Dean on until he was begging at my feet, then I would reject him until getting with him actually served as useful to me.

But I ain't Sylvia, and when I want something, I get it—no beating around the bush, no nonsense, and certainly no strings attached.

So when Dean was grinding on me as we danced to the music in his shitty house, his hands gripping my hips as he buried his face in my neck, I decided that enough was enough. I wanted this guy, and I wanted him right then, so we went to his room. In the dim lighting, it was hard to see his face, the only feature of him truly sticking out being his light blond hair. I was grateful for that, because now letting Dean fuck me would be a million times easier to go through with.

With Dean, he hadn't beat around the bush, either—literally. He got right down to it, hiked my too-short skirt up, ripped my blouse open, and got to work. I could only close my eyes and focus on the color of his hair, pretending . . . pretending . . . pretending . . .

But that ain't what _his_ lips felt like, what _his_ hands felt like. I only squeezed my eyes tightly shut, teeth grinding together as Dean's heavy grunts sound in my ears. He doesn't go easy, isn't the slightest bit gentle, either, and when he's finished, he simply leaves, leaving behind nothing but the beer bottle the two of us had been sharing earlier.

When I finally managed enough strength to get up, I fixed my clothes and my hair, and then made my way out of Dean's house. He was on the porch smoking weed with a few of his greaser pals, and when his gaze landed on my approaching figure, he made his way over to me. I was too stiff to really do anything, and Dean's arms easily enveloped my small frame, his lips pressing against my earlobe. He whispered a soft "thanks" before pulling back to wink at me, one hand reaching down to pinch the area between my legs. On instinct, I slapped him good and hard across the mouth before shoving him away and telling him to stay the fuck away from me.

And that was how I gained a reputation for being loose and sleazy at fifteen.

* * *

 _Through faith we understand that the worlds were framed by the word of God, so that things which are seen were not made of things which do appear._ —Hebrews 11:3

Tim's room is gross.

It smelled like cheap booze, leather, cigarettes, weed, and . . . him. But that night, I didn't mind—not at all. I simply made myself comfortable in his bed, grabbing one of his pillows and wishing that I could cry. For a moment, I just wanted to let it all out, but I couldn't, and at that rate, I don't even know _how_ to make myself cry, so I squeezed the lump of feathers and cotton to my face and closed my eyes.

I wondered about Dallas, how many times his ugly ass sat down on my brother's bed, how many times his boots indented the carpet when he walked in. But his face was replaced with Dean's, and all I was able to hear were his grunts and groans as he worked himself over, swearing under his breath. I felt like a fool, but I don't ever tell anyone that—I ain't weak, never was, never will be. Weak ain't in my blood, so I wouldn't ever let myself seem vulnerable.

It was a while later when I let myself slip off—mentally, emotionally, physically—and for once, the house was quiet, real quiet. It was so quiet, in fact, that it seemed almost eerie, but I didn't care, and I allowed myself to bask in it because it was something that was most likely never going to happen again. Just one of those things, I told myself, one of those things.

My surreal trance was interrupted when the bedroom door opened and the sound of footsteps entered. No one would notice it, but my entire body froze, and some part of me thought that it might be Leon or that fucking figure that haunted my mind a few nights back. I ain't crazy, I know I'm not, but I allowed that godawful memory to eat away at me like it was real, like it actually happened. Thing is, I almost hoped that it _was_ real, because then I would know I wasn't truly slipping . . .

"Angela?"

I instantly relaxed at the sound of Tim's voice. To anyone else, it sounds cold, bitter, apathetic, and gruff, a sign that this ain't the guy you wanna be around. To me, it's comforting and soothing, a innate reminder that I'm still alive, awake, and fully conscious. My brothers might have been stupid jerks a lot of the times, but they were all I had in the end.

Tim shook me roughly. "C'mon, Angela, get up."

"The brush," I croaked. "Find the brush."

I didn't see his face, but Tim removed his hand from my shoulder blade, and I heard him leaving the room a moment later. I suddenly realize, in that moment, what makes Winston attractive to me—there was some part, whether it be the personality or whatever that comforted me, that reminded me of Tim. I remembered him brushing my hair when I was a lot younger, him and Curly always having my back no matter what. The difference was that Tim reached a maturity that Dallas never would, which came from running an organized gang, being disciplined. Something about Winston's wild way and freedom got to me, though, made me like him just enough that he could get under my skin, even in death.

Tim returned with the brush a few minutes later. "Heard you went to a party."

"Where'd ya hear that?"

"Charlie Cooke," he answered, beginning to run the brush through my hair. "Said he saw ya with Dean Mathis, hangin' all over him."

I snorted. "Why are you even talkin' to me?"

"Why are you in my fucking room?" The brush stopped moving, and I heard Tim place it on the table beside the bed, before he lit up a cigarette. "Ain't you a little old to be sleepin' in here?"

I could only shrug. "What do you care? You walk into my room whenever you'd like, and I don't complain about it or nothin'."

He exhaled. "Tough shit." At my silence, he continued. "So, were you with Mathis or not?"

"Maybe."

"Yeah."

A silence surrounded us for a while, and I could feel Tim's gaze burning a hole into the side of my head as he chain smoked. I wondered why he even came home anymore, what it mattered to him, same as Curly. Why did any of us ever return to this shitty place, where memories serve as things we would rather forget, where dreams are nightmares, where nothing good exists. Why did any of us kids ever come back? Maybe, deep down, each of us knew that we were just as fucked up as the things that had taken place there—no matter what, there would never be an escape.

Tim suppressed a sigh. "Whatever happened with Betty Morris?"

The question caused me to freeze, but I countered it anyway. "Tim, do you believe in God?"

"Thought you did."

Silence.

"I used to."

* * *

 **Thank you for all of the feedback on this story. It's always appreciated. :3**

 **—Cat**


	5. Righteous Mercy

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders.**

* * *

 **mercy:** compassion or forgiveness shown toward someone whom it is within one's power to punish or harm

 _He that coveth his sins shall not prosper: but whoso confesseth and forsaketh them shall have mercy._ —Proverbs 28:13

I wondered how many people died a day—every day, every minute, every second. It seemed so strange and bizarre to think of such a thing, but my mind itself was a strange and bizarre thing, and often I found myself confounded by its unusual process of exploration and wonder. Of course, being fifteen, I was too curious for my own good, and as I sat on a swing in the deserted park, one foot angled down so that my toes were aimed toward the dirt, I gently rocked myself as I let my thoughts continue to run wild.

From the outside, I probably seemed like a normal teenage girl, one who hadn't taken the life of another teenage girl, one who hadn't doped up just to feel something, one who hadn't been . . . one who wasn't fucked up so much on the inside. But I couldn't let anyone know how I really felt, because then I would be weak and vulnerable—things I am not and far from.

But as I thought about Betty Morris's face, I couldn't help but feel sick. I supposed that this was my own punishment—I was going to hell anyway, and I was okay with that.

* * *

"There's something about you that reminds me of him," Sylvia said to me, sucking on a cigarette. In a year and a half, she had changed so much. So much, in fact, that I hadn't even recognized her when she approached me, calling out my name desperately. "I ain't sure what it is, but whenever I see you, I find myself thinkin' of him."

"Of who?"

"Dallas."

I froze almost instantaneously, not expecting that name from her mouth. It had been a year and a half since Dallas and the Cade kid had died, and it had been several months since I had stepped foot in the old and decrepit cemetery. It had been a long time since I even bothered to look at Dallas's picture; I had decided to let go of everything, or at least try to, even if the suffocating memories haunted me in my sleep nearly every night.

Pushing my dark locks away from my face, I rolled my eyes. "Sylvia, you're nuts. There ain't nothin' about me that could remind you of _that_ animal." I lit up my own cancer stick. "'Sides, what would it even matter anymore? Winston's been dead for almost two years now."

And even though the words tasted like vinegar on my tongue, Sylvia looked like I had slapped her right across the fucking mouth. I couldn't let on that I had developed feelings for her ex-boyfriend, if you could honestly even classify Dallas as such, and I sure as hell couldn't tell her about my dreams or anything of the sort. Good Lord, she would probably knock me the fuck out, and I would let her; in my mind, I deserved it.

"Fuck you, Angela," she spit, jaw clenched.

I wanted to tell her that had been exactly was her dead ex-boyfriend was doing to me every night in my dreams, but I didn't. I decided to play it safe because Sylvia looked sick, like there was something going on with her that wasn't exactly visible—like me. Besides, I internally felt sorry for her, especially with how she had been spending her time playing the field and sailing three sheets to the wind every day and night.

"What'd you want anyhow?" I asked, keeping my voice casual.

She sighed. "I don't know. I guess I wanted to talk to someone with familiarity, someone I know." She breathed in slowly but hardly, her green eyes piercing and bitter. "Things are changing, Angela, really changing, and I don't know how to feel about it."

I couldn't help but blink at her words. I understood what she was saying, though, even if I didn't want to admit it to anyone out loud. She was right—things were changing alright, and not just around us, but in every part of the world. It dawned on me that Sylvia was just as alone as I was, and there was some part of me that wanted to reach out and tell her that everything would be alright, but I couldn't. I would be lying to her and myself if I did, so I kept my trap shut for the time being.

But Sylvia kept going. "Angela, do you think . . . do you think this is how things are supposed to be?"

"I don't know," I answered coolly, glancing at her.

"I just mean that time is going by so quickly now, and I don't got a hold on things, ya know?" she said, leaning forward to press her elbows to her knees. "Hell, I don't even got a hold on myself."

"Do any of us?"

Her brows raised in surprise. "What about you?"

"Sylvia," I said leisurely, breathing out a sigh, "I don't take nothin' too seriously." My eyes met hers and a smile touched my lips. "I ain't ever making it outta this town anyway."

* * *

I tossed and turned in bed that night, Sylvia's words replaying in my mind over and over. I felt sick, sicker than I had when I first drank tequila and thought that I would die afterward. My head was pounding and I felt nauseous, my stomach cramping up and my body aching. I hated getting my period—it was such an annoyance, if you want my opinion. But more than anything, I hated feeling like that, like I was so lethargic and sickly, my body too weak to move.

Remembering my dream only made me feel worse—I could see his face again, hear his voice. It was all so twisted and weird, and I had to keep reminding myself that it was only a dream, only a dream, only a fucking dream. But that reconciliation doesn't stop the dry sobs that bubbled up my throat, and it sure as fuck don't ever stop the dreams from recurring over and over.

Instead of trying to sleep again, I got out of bed and headed to the bathroom, eager to splash some cool water on my face in hope that I could soothe the pounding in my head—I felt like my brain was about to implode from how bad I felt. But I could only stare at my reflection in the streaked mirror once I was inside, the girl looking back at me concealing the monster inside. Oh, I had always liked sinning; it had become a part of me, thanks to Winston's antics that one day he kissed me. Just thinking about that memory caused me to subconsciously trace my bottom lip with my tongue, eyes drifting closed for only a second as I reminisced.

I could barely recall the first time I had ever met that devil. Even at twelve years old, he had been so mean looking, so ugly, too. His hair had always been too fucking long, and his eyes were sharp and cold, two pieces of ice frozen with absolute hatred. I was a lot younger, only eight, and seeing a look like that had intrigued me—I didn't understand then, not like I had later on. Of course, he had stopped by looking for Tim—said he heard that "Shepard" lived at our address.

At that time, I had never seen Dallas, but he looked as hard as nails, and he made my skin crawl. I had immediately disliked him. I had told him that Tim was in the slammer and that he wouldn't be out for some time. His face twisted a little, before he turned on his heel, heading off of the property. At eight, I was still overly curious, so I'd called out for him, only to ask him his name.

"Dallas," he answered, sounding bored but looking almost proud. "Dallas Winston."

I smirked an innocent smirk, blue-black bangs falling into my eyes. "Nice meetin' you, Dally."

I had never seen his reaction because I skipped back inside the house, wondering what that ugly kid wanted with my brother while I repeated his name in my head—Dallas Winston . . . Dallas . . . Dally—I liked _Dally_ more.

* * *

Innocent Angela Shepard was dead.

My newfound reputation spread through the streets like wildfire. Suddenly, I wasn't just little Angela Shepard anymore—I was sleazy Angela Shepard, the slutty younger sister of Tim and Curly. I hadn't bothered to care about what I was being called, though—I'd stopped caring some time ago. Besides, what did it matter? What did anything matter? Here's the thing . . . When you come from the wrong side of the tracks, no one gives a goddamn about you, plain and simple, so why in the hell should I care about myself?

I'd spent the next few weeks breaking the hearts of a few greasers. I didn't care, I told myself, I didn't, because caring meant that there was some sort of attachment, and I didn't get attached to nobody. Girls who were older than me stepped out of my way, greaser girls—my kind—watched me like hawks, and those upper class Soc bitches? They sneered at my sugary smile, the sinister look in my eyes, which guys gossiped could rain death. What they didn't know was how right they were.

The bitch had sprung to life, on the prowl, and ready for the kill.

* * *

I flaunted into the living room one afternoon feeling rather victorious. Michelle Fowler had been talkin' lousy about me, but what she didn't understand was that _only I_ could talk bad about myself, my fucked up life, and my family, not her. So when she had started running her mouth, sayin' that I was a dirty little scoundrel, I had socked her square in the fucking nose, a satisfying _crunch_ being the only sound that made me grin like a Chessy cat afterward.

What had soured my mood, though, was the look Curly was giving me from where he sat on our ripped up couch that was littered with stains and discoloration from years of neglect and wear and tear. Damn thing was probably close to twenty five years old—I wouldn't have been surprised to learn that Tim had been the one conceived on it.

"What's your problem?" I asked Curly, taking a swig of Leon's whiskey.

My brother scowled in return. "You been hearin' what people are sayin' 'bout you?"

"Sure have."

"And you ain't at all pissed about it?" He looked mildly perturbed, but that was his problem. "People are sayin' that yer a fuckin' slut, Angel."

Another swig had me smirking. "Well isn't that just nice for them? Let them say what they want, Curly, I don't care, and neither should you."

He looked appalled by then. "You don't give a shit about yer reputation?" My brother shook his head, and I imagined his hair being a little longer, but it had been cut short when he got locked up. "Ya know, I don't like havin' to hear about my sister sleepin' around with James Vincent, or Greg Louer, or shit—" He scratched the back of his head, lost for words. "Fuck, is any of that even true?"

I had to laugh at his stupidity. "'Course it ain't. You think I'd let Greg Louer anywhere near me? Hell, I wouldn't let him fuck me with a ten foot pole."

Curly looked almost relieved. "Guess I should pay a visit to Louer, huh?" He grinned, looking like Tim in miniature. "It'll give me something to do anyway; I ain't been in a fight in a while." Next, he yawned while leaning back on the couch. "Ya know Tim's got a new member in his ranks."

"Who?" I asked, barely interested.

"Billy Walkins."

Rage bubbled through my body, but I could only nod my head, teeth pressing together. I've been told that I resemble a tiger when I'm angry, and that time was no different. But before I could let my anger fully surface and takeover, one emotion beat it to the top, and I barely made it to the bathroom before I hurled up everything in my stomach.

* * *

I sat up for half of the night, idly staring at the wall across from my bed. My eyes felt heavy, but they burned, too, a dangerous look on my face. I couldn't help it, though—every part of my being was filled with hatred, and there was some part of me that had always been terrified to let it out, to see the kind of damage and harm it would do. There's so much of it, and it clung to every cell in my body, running heavily through my veins until there was nothing else fueling me forward.

My oldest brother was a fucking idiot, and I hated him more than I've ever hated him at that particular moment. Letting Billy Walkins into his gang meant that he would be closer to me, and everything screamed at me to run, to hightail it the fuck out of there. But I couldn't, or could I? No, I knew that I couldn't, because there would never be an escape from that town, and even if I tried, I would end up dead in the process. This realization caused me to hate myself more and more the harder the message sunk in.

I loathed everything.

The bedroom door creaked open, and I was brought out of my thoughts to look at my mother, who did nothing but stare at me like I was a disease. I could see absolute uncertainty in her eyes as she watched me closely—she wondered if I was really her creation, if she had really brought something so terrible into the world, something like her.

"You ain't out?"

"Why would I be?"

She lit a cigarette, her eyes more bitter than the death of Winter. "You might as well make the most of what you've got now, Angela." The smoke poured out of her mouth. "People like us don't amount to much come later years, and you, bein' a girl, oughtta know that." Ma shook her head at me. "Lord have mercy, but you're just wasting away, ain't ya?"

And then she was gone, slamming the door shut on her way out.

* * *

 _But we are all as an unclean thing, and all of our righteousness are as filthy rags; and we all do fade as a leaf; and our inequities; like the wind, have taken us away._ —Isaiah 64:6

I felt like I could die.

My head was spinning, the light in the bathroom too bright and too overbearing. The room spun around me, and I felt atrociously sick, like I had the fucking plague or something. I ain't even sure how I had managed to make it back home, but I remembered something about Dean Mathis's car, his face in my own, and then street signs flying past me out the window. Everything had been a blur, though, and it leaves behind nothing but sensations of queasiness.

I remembered nothing but Ma's words that night, the realization that I would never amount to anything finally settling in. Of course, I had always known it, had always had some hint that I would never be anything worthwhile—I couldn't even find my own self worthy of anything. So this is what it had come to, I figured, I would die of an overdose of shit I didn't even recall taking, and then I would let Ma know just how right she had been.

Congratulations, Ma—I am nothing but a failure, _your failure_ , and I reckon you'll be mighty proud to know I made it outta this shithole town before you.

But it doesn't happen, and I sure as hell don't make my escape. Everything else, though, happened so quickly—I was puking my guts up, and then I was having spasms. I imagined that this is what Betty must have felt like when she died, and I can hope for nothing more for myself. The difference between Betty Morris and I is that I wanted to die—I wanted so bad just to die.

 _Our Father, which art in heaven,_  
 _Hallowed be thy Name._

The sound of my body collapsing on the floor had gathered my brothers' attention, and even in my frail state, my senses becoming more and more unfocused, I could hear pounding on the door. It took all but a minute before Tim literally kicked the fucking thing in, and it took all of two blinks of my drooping eyelids for his scarred face to appear in my vision. He was calling my name, and I don't know if I was really trippin' out or what, but I thought I registered fear—I was definitely out of it. Tim doesn't fear anything, not the Lord above, and not even the devil below.

 _Thy kingdom come._

Curly was standing in the doorway, an expression on his face that I ain't ever seen before. Tim was yellin' at him, and then he disappeared. I felt myself slipping by the second, but Tim's one arm was secured behind my head and he was saying things to me that I don't remember.

 _Thy will be done in earth,_  
 _As it is in heaven._

"Don't," I croaked to him, vile running down my chin. "Let me die, Tim, let me die."

And he looked at me strangely. Real strangely.

"You ain't dyin' on me, kid," he said, and then I swore I was flying.

 _Give us this day our daily bread.  
And forgive us our trespasses,  
As we forgive them that trespass against us._

In my hazy state of mind, I barely made out Curly's form by the phone, his eyes going wide with panic as Tim runs out the door with me gathered in his arms. He couldn't take the car because Ian Howl had slashed the fucking tires as a payback—one which wasn't so smart—so Tim ran like lightning all the way to the hospital. I shit you not. All I recalled was him telling Curly that no responder is gonna show up to help the likes of us, not that I could blame any of them.

 _And lead us not into temptation,  
But deliver us from evil. _

Tim ran that night, muttering a string of profanities all the way to the fucking hospital. I didn't feel anything, my body had gone completely numb, but what I did make out, down the end of a road under a dim street light, was an almost translucent figure. I couldn't see the face, but I could make out a crown of white-blond hair.

And then my eyes slipped closed, and I was thrust into an oasis of emptiness.

 _For thine is the kingdom,  
The power, and the glory,  
For ever and ever. _

* * *

My mother visited me one time while I was in the hospital, _one time_ , but I had been too out of it to really make out anything she had said to me—something about congratulating me on being just like Daddy, and for being nothing but a thorn in her side from day one. Curly had managed to get himself locked up the day after, the jerk. One would think he would have learned the first time he robbed a liquor store that he wasn't any good at it—he might have been Tim's doppelganger, but his way of thinking and personality were really the furthest thing from Tim's.

I didn't remember nothin' about my stay at the hospital, don't even remember Dean Mathis stopping by to tell Tim that I had been pretty drunk at a party—Tim had to relay that message to me a week later when I was actually conscious enough to comprehend what people were saying to me. Thing is, I had gone mute for a few days after my release because I didn't want to hear what people had to say about me—I would save my pride, though, later on. Of course I'd had too much to drink, nothing else. It ain't like Angela Shepard would do anything to _intentionally_ OD.

There is only one thing that I do remember about my first night at the hospital, and some part of me isn't at all sure if it had even happened. It seemed so real, though, like it had been, but the way my mind goes about things, I couldn't be sure.

I had been going in and out of consciousness, sounds going in and out of my ears. My body was numb all the way through, and everything felt increasingly slower. At one point, I cracked an eye open and lolled my head to the side, making out Tim's dark figure in the chair beside the bed. He was staring straight ahead, smoking a cigarette. The stand beside him is littered with the butts of finished ones, and the room reeked of tobacco. It was an odd comfort, though—reminded me that I was still very much alive and vulnerable.

Tim began speaking some time later, his voice the lowest and calmest I had ever heard it before. Tim usually spoke that way whenever he got real angry, whenever he was about to fight somebody. My oldest brother was the perfect replica of a model JD, like the ones you'd see in a magazine—dark hair, smoldering eyes, and a scarred up face. But he was always cool and collected, never let his emotions get in the way of anything—this was his outer exterior, though. I think Tim actually felt a lot of things, but it was all bottled up and concealed inside of him.

"I hated Curly when Ma brought him home," he said, tone level. "I really hated him for a long while afterward. I was turning four that Fall, and I thought I was a big guy then, so's havin' some stupid-ass, kid brother runnin' around wasn't somethin' I wanted." I heard him take a drag of his cigarette. "You know it took Ma three days to name him? Yeah, three fucking days to name that bastard." There was a smirk in that one, I was sure. "She named him 'cause of his hair; it was so fucking curly, and it grew in like a damn bush." Silence. "Then you came along a year later." Pause. "You was this tiny ass little thing, I swear. Ya know Pops couldn't even hold you . . ."

The sound of another cigarette being lit was the only indication that Tim hadn't up and left. I was a little surprised, even in my fucked up state, that Tim was talkin' like that, because he don't really give a damn about a lot of things, and he certainly don't get sentimental over shit, either. He'd always said that he didn't remember his childhood, that it wasn't important enough to ever think about or hold memories of, but right then, it seemed important enough for him to start remembering, to start thinking about.

Weird how things worked like that, huh?

"You know something else? Ma was fucked up when she delivered you," he continued, his voice still that same level of sheer calm. "I remember standin' in this same hospital when you was born." Another pause. "The old man was locked up, so I was watchin' Curly that night; they let me an' him into the room to see ya at Ma's request, ya know?" He snorted. "The hospital people had some nurse watchin' us 'cause nobody else wanted to, and 'sides, I couldn't really take care of the little shit, either." The smell of the room was getting thicker with smoke. "Doctors told me you was a miracle baby—that you must've had some angel lookin' over ya or something, 'cause with how fucked up Ma was that night, you shouldn't have been alive."

Another silence past, another cigarette was stubbed, and another one was lit.

Tim kept speaking, and I wondered if he was really consoling himself. "I told Ma that night to name you Angel, 'cause of that. But she didn't like Angel by itself, so she chose Angela." A drag. "That was a whole of nearly sixteen years ago, kid. And now I'm lookin' at ya the same way Ma laid in that hospital bed— I didn't think I'd ever be livin' it all over again."

* * *

"I killed Betty Morris."

Tim don't say nothing, but his eyes were focused, intent, and hard. He just merely stared at me while I looked up at him from my place in that godawful hospital bed. I wondered what he thought of me, then, how much shock could pass through his veins before he up and left me behind for good. Thing is, that was just the way things went in general—everyone always left—natural order of things.

"Thought she overdosed."

"I sold the drugs to her."

Silence.

"Did you force them into her body?"

"No."

"Then you didn't exactly kill her, did ya?"

But Tim didn't understand, he didn't understand that Betty had been the first person I had ever sold shit to, that if it wasn't for me, she would have still been around. Maybe I hadn't exactly cared about her, maybe I hadn't exactly been her friend, but it was my fucking fault that she wasn't around anymore. I had taken that from her because I had given her the dope.

I blinked. "I did."

Tim's expression don't change, though. "Betty's been gone over a year, Angela. If you care about what happened to her that much, say a prayer and ask for forgiveness."

"I don't say prayers anymore."

"Well, do it anyway," he responded. "Maybe you'll get some kinda righteous mercy and get a free pass to the golden gates or whatever." He rolled his eyes at his own words because he didn't care about that kinda stuff. "Look, you think Betty would forgive ya?"

Would she?

"For giving her the dope?" My lips pressed together.

But Tim only looked factual. "Well, if you gotta ask that, you ain't all that guilty of killin' her, are ya?"

Some part of me supposed that he was right, or maybe it wasn't really Betty I had been looking for the forgiveness from. I thought about it awhile, before deciding that I had only been guilty of giving her the fucking dope—she had initially killed herself. I wouldn't ever say it, but I had felt bad, and maybe there was some part of me that wasn't too far gone after all.

"What about you?"

Tim's eyes were sharp. "Ain't nothin' to forgive."

* * *

 **Thank you for reading and reviewing! It's always so appreciated! :3**


	6. The Ways of Death

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton own The Outsid** **ers. **

* * *

**peace:** freedom from disturbance; quiet and tranquility

 _For to be carnally minded is death; but to be spiritually minded is life and peace._ —Romans 8:6

Leon's voice rang louder in my ears the more he yelled, and it made me sick. I hated looking at him, hated seeing his ugly face and his ugly glare. What I hated more, though, were the marks he left up and down my arms from where he grabbed me, or the swollen flesh of my face from where he slapped me hardly for talkin' back to him. Ma just told me over and over to quit disobeying him, to quit trying to get my own way, but she's too far gone to know what's happening around her, and I ain't ever gonna listen to, or obey, Leon's rules.

This ain't his house, and he ain't my daddy.

I've made that piece of information known real well, mostly because I've had to repeat it several fucking times in the past. But Leon still thought he could knock me an' Curly around whenever he wanted, but he never went after Tim. Tim went after him, though, whenever he got too outta control, which meant that he was either beating on Curly, or pushing me around.

It's back to those fucked up cycles again—the ones I'm stuck in and can't get out of.

A good, hard slap in the face brought me back to reality, and my eyes stung something awful; Leon's hand had come within an inch of my right eye. He grabbed my chin, jerking my head to the side to face him, but I refused to cower down. His small and beady eyes were burning a hole into my own, and I could smell the nasty odor of liquor on his breath—he was pissed.

"You been stealin' from me, you little bitch!" he said, voice gruff and angry. "I'm gonna teach you a fuckin' lesson." His eyes narrowed. "Yer jus' like yer mother . . . fuckin' useless, little—"

I blocked him out after that, but he still had my arm and was bending it at an odd angle. Then he began yelling and swearing, and I held my breath as he began wailing on me. I had learned to blank out long ago, learned to not let it get to me. Plenty of kids on this side of town got a good lickin' every now and again, and I refused to cry in front of Leon, refused to let him think he got over on me. Nobody got over on me— _nobody_.

It was when Leon threw me backward, my head banging into the wall, that I went completely unconscious.

* * *

"Miss Shepard, have you been having any trouble at home?"

Mrs. Philips, the school counselor, was always trying to nail me for something, and she really got a good kick in digging around my home life and family issues. I hated her with a twisted passion, and she hated me all the same. We walked on thin ice around each other, but I was always tiptoeing around her questions, always on guard. She was just looking for ways to have me tossed into a girls' home or something like that, but I was always careful.

"Nope," I answered, making sure to sweetly bat my lashes at her. She despised that more than anything, I was certain. "You finished with me?"

But Mrs. Philips merely stared at me with a disgusted expression. It was always those kinds; it was like she reserved them just for me. I told myself over and over that she was jealous of me—jealous because I was young, and beautiful, and could get away with things that she couldn't. Then again, people like her were always lookin' at me funny, giving me judgmental and harsh glares like I was nothing at all, like I was worthless.

I could hear Ma's voice in my head, then, her underlying warning. Girls like me—we oughtta know that there's nothing for us out there, that we're never gonna make it. I was okay with that, though, because I had long ago accepted it. I'd seen everyone else go down the tubes, never leaving, and I didn't really expect myself to be the first to escape, either.

Mrs. Philips sighed dramatically. "Angela, some of your teachers noticed—"

"And we go through this every week, don't we?" I bit out, acting like I ain't bothered, acting like none of what she's rambling about bothered me. You know what bothers me? Too many inquiries. People just don't get it—they _can't_ help. "Ain't none of your concern what goes on with my home life, savvy?"

"You're failing three of your classes."

The statement caused me to grind my teeth. In a vague and foggy flashback, I see a small girl with long and dark hair, an innocent look in her blue eyes—I see her alright. I've always seen her, but whenever I reached out to her, she seemed to drift further and further away, and then I was filled with nothing but emptiness and darkness, a void inside of me expanding a little more. She's dead, though, that girl, and she has been for quite a long time.

Maybe some people—Mrs. Philips—needed to understand that, too.

"Good," I replied, standing up, a smile stretched across my lips. "And when I drop out, you can clap your fucking hands."

And I left.

* * *

Smoking grass calmed my nerves.

I kept it to myself, though—not even Curly knew about it. But it don't matter anyway, because both Tim and Curly got locked up again, and I was left to deal with Leon on my own. In fact, I was left to deal with a lot on my own. When I wasn't out late a night, hanging down by the strip, or drinking away my sorrows with Marielle and Sylvia, and some other sleazy girls, I sat by myself at home, letting my thoughts take over and cloud out my reality.

Hating things was the only way to block out every other emotion, to let myself slip down further from my own sanity. I didn't want to feel anything anymore, didn't want things to get in my way. I'd been told that, for a girl, I was tougher than nails, that I was tuff, and my reputation exceeded me. I was well known on my own by then, no longer shadowed by Tim and Curly.

It was a bizarre thing, one might think, to be your own undoing. I was born to be tough, to be cool and collected. I was told as a young child—when things got bad—to suck it up and shut my trap, and I had come to learn that that was the only way to survive in life. I didn't get attached to nobody, didn't let anyone get too close to me, because I didn't care—I just existed.

That was all there was to it.

There would never be any peace for me in this life.

* * *

"You're changing, Angela," Marielle said, downing a can of beer. "I mean, I know everybody changes and all that shit, but . . . you're different than us."

I cocked an eyebrow, not really interested. "That so?"

"Yeah," she replied, lighting up a cigarette and passing it to me. "People are talkin' about ya. Don't you know that?"

At that moment, I could almost hear Curly's voice in my head, his concern amplifying as he questioned me about my reputation. I told him I hadn't cared, not in the least, and if anyone else wanted to care about me more than I did, that was their problem, not mine. It didn't strike me or nothin' when Marielle practically replicated my brother's words with her own, and either way, I still didn't care. She was right, though—everybody changed, and I was no exception.

I inhaled deeply, repressing my emotions. "Is it anything juicy?"

Marielle frowned. "Well, it ain't pretty."

"I'm listening."

I was used to all of that bullshit—that I was a bitch, a slut, a lowlife—hell, if I wasn't hearing the words at my own fucking house, it followed me at school and everywhere else. Marielle always told me something new nearly every day. I wondered, briefly, if she would ever figure out that I didn't care about none of it, that I could give two shits about those people in that fucked up town.

A sigh. "Well, they think you're like your brother, and I don't mean Curly."

I could've laughed. "Good for them."

But Marielle didn't look happy, she appeared more unnerved. "Angela, that ain't a good thing." Her voice was a little shaky. "You know that, right?" When I didn't bother to respond to her, she went on to something else. "I'm seein' somebody."

My brows raised in minor curiosity. "Who ain't ya seeing?"

"It's serious this time."

"Alright, who?"

"Billy Walkins and I have been . . . well, ya know," she divulged, clearly impressed with herself. "He's been really sweet, and—"

I had blocked her out, my stomach tightening in on itself. I didn't really consider Marielle a close friend of mine, but at her words, something inside of me surged, electrifying my insides until I felt every single ounce of anger spark to life. My conscious voice was screaming at me, but I wasn't sure what to do. What to do? What to do? _What to fucking do?_

And in my own heated fury, I had lashed out at her.

I erupted.

* * *

My vision was blurred with little black dots as I burned a hole into the chipping paint on my bedroom wall. I hated everything, I wanted everyone to die, I wanted to be alone. There was such rage boiling inside of me, and I could feel the adrenaline pumping white-hot through my veins—there was no real escape. I had been afraid for the longest time of what would happen if I decided to let the monster out, to let myself finally succumb to that void—it was opening more and more and never filling with anything to hold and support it.

I had made up my mind—I would kill Billy if I ever saw him again. I didn't care if he was a member of my brother's stupid gang or not. In fact, I didn't care about anything, and I was going to show that prick that he couldn't get away with what he'd done—what he'd taken from me.

Allowing myself to sink a little more, I closed my eyes. Betty's face entered my mind, and a shiver crawled up my spine, dancing its way through my neck and shoulders, goosebumps forming across my skin. Tim and I hadn't discussed the incident in the hospital, or Betty, or anything, and I was glad that he had let it go. The last thing I needed was to be thinking about her, so why had she haunted my mind just then? And then it dawned on me that if I killed Billy, I would really become what I had always thought myself to be. Oh, to be filled with such indescribable hatred, to allow my enemies to win, even in death.

How sick was it, that while I laid in bed that night, one of my friends was fucking my rapist?

* * *

In reality, I had only been with one man willingly.

But I had been taken advantage of by another, and sometimes had some sick and twisted randevu with another in my dreams at night. What does that make me? I never tell anyone about them, either, and I kept myself as far away from my house as possible. I spent some nights at Buck's place, and there was one night when I went to _his_ old room—the place where _he_ used to stay when he needed to lie low for a while.

There were butterflies in my stomach, my throat closing up, and my tongue feeling thick and heavy in my mouth. I wondered if what I was doing was wrong, or if I was just demented. Was I? But those thoughts hadn't stopped me from entering that room, and to my surprise, it was just an old, dirty and messy space, probably used over a hundred times after _he_ had died.

He wasn't nothin' special, and no place would preserve anything in his memory. In fact, I was surprised that most people hadn't spit on his grave or smashed his headstone. Hell, there were times when I had really wanted to— _really_ wanted to. I stood at the side of the bed, though, exhaling shakily through my nose as I simply stared at the old and worn out mattress. I felt numb, so completely numb, and for a moment, I questioned myself on why I had went there.

But there was only one excuse—things at home had been getting bad, and I could no longer stand to be around Ma or Leon, and their fucking fights that made me want to jam a knife in my ears. I wondered, then, what it would be like to be deaf, to no longer be able to hear. Sometimes, though, I felt like that, like everyone else was to me, as if they were incapable of really hearing me. Everybody saw me, but they only saw what they wanted to see, but they never heard me.

I wanted to be deaf to them, too.

My fingers danced lightly across the threadbare sheets, my mind imagining a white-haired boy sleeping on top of them, his angry face a little smoother while he slept.

I wondered if, unlike me, he had ever found peace in his dreams, or if he had ever dreamed at all.

* * *

The days continued to drag on and on, and Winter finally died as Spring resurrected, bringing forth the blossoming of new life. There was nothing blossoming on the East side of town, though, and there ain't nothin' pretty about it. Still, for whatever reason, I allowed myself to sit down by the old train tracks, smoking a stale cigarette and nursing a bottle of Leon's whiskey. Sneaking back into the house during the day hadn't been too hard, but it was the process of going through with it.

What kind of fucked up world was it when a kid was afraid to enter their own home?

I told myself over and over that I wasn't afraid of nothing, but the way my hands clammed up whenever I looked at the place I called home said otherwise. Thing is, it ain't the people inside that unnerved me; it was the memories and events that had taken place there—they clung to every corner of the interior and every piece of dust in the air, gently circulating the atmosphere and sticking to the flesh until it pulled the living down with it, suffocating and destructive.

It's everything I'd become, isn't it?

Attending school had become something of the past. I no longer cared to grace the people there with my presence, no longer cared about my education—not even a little—and I didn't care to make any kind of effort. Everybody told me that it wouldn't do me any good in the long run, so what was the point? What did it matter?

Mrs. Philips's voice echoed in my head, going on about how I'm failing, asking if there was something going on in my home life that's troubling me, and I grinned in spite of myself. Wouldn't it just please her to know everything? Wouldn't it just make her sleep better at night if she knew the gratuitous events that I witnessed during every day life? Wouldn't it just be something . . .

Here's something. Imagine being the younger sister of two hoodlums, one a gang leader. Imagine your own mother resenting your very fucking existence because you're _you_ , plain as that, and imagine your mother's alcoholic and abusive boyfriend making it practically impossible for you to live at your own fucking house, shithole as it is, and imagine having to see the person who destroyed you some time ago nearly every day, because he's now part of your brother's gang . . . _and just fucking imagine all of that_ . . . and then imagine asking yourself every day . . .

. . . is it me?

* * *

There was a time when Ma used to say prayers with me every night. She would come into my room, smile at me, and together we would kneel at the side of my bed. She had taught me _The Lord's Prayer_ at a very young age, so we would always start with that one first. I used to really believe someone up there could hear me, that someone was really listening to me, and sometimes I wonder if there ever was, or if Ma got a kick out of mocking me.

But she would tell me to pray, to close my eyes and talk to God. Afterward, she would tuck me in, give me a goodnight kiss, and then hum gently before she left. I always had to remind her to leave the door cracked so that the dimness of the nightlight in the bathroom could seep through and I didn't have to feel like I was in complete darkness. Back then, I was afraid of the dark. Back then, I was afraid of being alone. Back then, I was young and naive and innocent, but I didn't have a care in the world.

One night, though, Ma stopped coming.

I waited for her for a long, long time, but she never came.

The next night, she didn't come, either. Like a hopeless fool, I waited and waited _and waited_ for her, until I finally gathered enough nerve to ask her why she had stopped coming to tuck me in at night. Her answer was simple enough—simple enough for her. She told me that the time had come where I had to learn to do things on my own, which included putting myself to bed at night, and that I couldn't always depend on her to be there all the time.

I stood there in my nightgown, holding the teddy bear that had once belonged to Tim, and then Curly, eyes wide with confusion. I had simply nodded before responding that it was all okay, but it wasn't, not really, because I wasn't ready to let go just yet.

That night, I had stopped cracking my door.

The paint on the wall wasn't even chipped yet.

* * *

 _There is a way which seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death._ —Proverbs 14:12

"I can't believe you actually showed up for school," Marielle said, glancing at me weirdly. "What's it been, an entire month?"

There was something different about her. "Something like that."

"You win something extravagant?"

"Nope."

"Then why are you here?"

Rolling my eyes, I dropped the mascara back into my bag—my lashes were thick and long enough, and with the extra coat, they were bolder than before when I had done myself up earlier that morning. What did Marielle even care about me showing up for school anyway? By this time, I hadn't seen her in a few weeks, didn't care to. Whenever I went down to the Ribbon, she was nowhere to be found. I had ran into Sylvia a few times, but never inquired about Marielle. Maybe I should have, maybe I should have bothered to care, but I just . . . I didn't.

"Angela?"

My eyes focused back on Marielle's glowing form, and my brow quirked. "Why do you care?"

"I don't know," she answered blankly, and turned to fix her own makeup. "Listen, with your brothers being locked up for so long—"

"Don't," I bit out, cutting her off with an icy glare. I already knew where she was headed, and I wasn't in the damn mood to hear her yapping away about my family. Lord knew I was already going to hear it all from Michelle. I looked Marielle over, though, scrutinizing her as I took in her appearance. I had known that there was something different about her, but what it was, I couldn't tell. "What happened to you anyway?"

Her cheeks turned a shade, and her eyes lowered to the dirty tiled floor. "What do you mean?"

Here's the thing: Marielle knew that I wasn't stupid, not by a long shot. I was a terrific actress when it was called for, could lie my way out of just about anything, play sweet and innocent when I needed to, and everything else in between, so the fact that Marielle thought she could lie straight to my face like that only proved that she was more of an idiot than what I'd originally given her credit for.

I eyed her carefully, hardly. "Don't bullshit me."

"Angel—"

I could've slapped her right across the mouth, but instead, the one question that I feared knowing the answer to fell out of my mouth instead, and I realized in the end that it was the reason I hadn't bothered to look around for, or ask anyone about, Marielle. I just simply didn't want to know, having internally feared for her because of the prick whose arm she was hanging off of.

"Was it Billy?"

She looked perturbed, terribly so, and I felt like another nightmare of mine was becoming a reality as the expression on her face only contorted to anguish, a darkness in her eyes. I wanted to reach out for her, but I couldn't, and when she finally answered me, I was glad that I hadn't.

"Angela, I'm pregnant."

My throat felt like it was filled with sand, my mouth dry and gritty, and my tongue unable to move. I couldn't process that, any of it, and while she continued to ramble on, my legs buckled. Grabbing the edge of the sink to support myself, I took steady breaths, counting slowly in my mind, wishing that I was anywhere else but that grimy high school bathroom. Marielle's voice faded into the background, and I was suddenly hyperaware that I was practically suffocating, chest tightening up completely. All I could think about was Marielle's baby, her child with Billy Walkins, Billy being in my brother's gang, and I never wanted to kill somebody so much.

* * *

I didn't talk to Marielle for a while after that, instead letting myself drift away from most people. I did attend school for a bit, but I didn't bother to try with the work or improve my grades, or any of that nonsense. Instead, I kept going to avoid being bored during the day and having to sit inside my house, the last place I wanted to be. Leon had gotten fired from his latest job—no fucking surprise there—and he started spending his time lousing around the house, drinking more and more with each passing day.

It was another fucking routinely cycle.

To waste my own time after school hours, I began drinking, too. I'd take free alcohol from anyone I could get it from, and one particular night, while I was hanging down on the strip, I met a decent looking guy who stood out to me. There was something about him that was quite alluring, but it wasn't his looks, well, not completely anyway. I felt something for him almost instantaneously, and I could tell that there was something different about him—the way he looked at things, the way he drifted through the people around him . . .

I approached him, a sweet smile on my face. "What's your name, handsome?"

He grinned at me, and I nearly melted at his eyes alone. "Bryon." His voice was silky, but it held a young gruffness to it at the same time. He looked me over. "What about you, sweetheart?"

"Angela." I leaned closer. "You got a last name to go with your first?" My hand touched his arm, slowly moving up with each passing second. "Mine's Shepard."

Bryon's brows pulled together a bit, but then he smiled, too. "Douglas. Bryon Douglas."

We ended up spending the night together, and when he advanced on me a little, I didn't exactly refuse him. He was cute, charming, and different in ways that I wasn't quite used to, but I could tell that none of this was his first rodeo—far from. I liked Bryon a lot, but I ain't sure if it was him that I really liked, or if it was the way he made me feel. But I realized that I could care about him, really care about him, and that made me want to be with him, made me want to stay with him.

When we parted ways for the night, I wrote my number on his arm and told him to call me. He only grinned and said that he'd be sure to do that. I'm not quite sure if any of that was a mistake or an experience, but the more that I thought about Bryon, the more I liked to think that he could be one hell of an experience for me, one that I was really looking forward to.

* * *

I returned to the house officially when Curly got out of the slammer. It was always easier with two of us around anyway, even if it drove Ma up a fucking wall. Leon didn't bother to say anything to either of us when we waltzed on in together one afternoon, instead looking the both of us over and shaking his head like we were the dirt that caked the bottom of his boots.

That night, though, Curly came into my room, and judging from his eyes, I could tell immediately that he was somewhat drunk. It didn't faze me, though—not anymore. Curly had been drinking a lot more since he turned sixteen. It dawned on me that Curly had turned seventeen, that his birthday had passed while he was in jail, and I realized that my sixteenth birthday was creeping up, too.

I glanced at Curly. "Celebrating?"

He merely grinned, already knowing what I was getting at. "Somethin' like that." And then he took a seat beside me on the bed while I continued to paint my toenails. "You think Ma really hates us?"

"Yup."

"But she likes Tim."

I had to roll my eyes at his stupidity. "Ma only likes Tim because it's easier for her when he provides income. If you start givin' her dough, she'll like you, too."

He leaned back on the wall, crossing his arms. "Never thought of that."

"You don't think of nothin'."

A scowl formed on his bitter face. "Well, it's better than thinkin' of everything." His eyes were boring into the side of my face, but I continued applying the polish while he spoke. "Makes things easier, ya know? That way, you don't gotta feel so much."

I was silent.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading and leaving such wonderful reviews! I appreciate each and every one of you! :3**


	7. Bittersweet Woe

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders.**

* * *

 **woe:** great sorrow or distress

 _Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil; that put darkness for light, and light for darkness; that put bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter!_ —Isaiah 5:20

I hated being told what to do, hated when people thought that they could walk all over me. Ma usually never paid any attention to me, except for when she wanted things done. She would start hollerin' at me as soon as I walked through the door, going on and on about how the laundry wasn't done, and how the dishes were piled up in the sink, or whatever else. Her voice would bounce off of the walls, her shrieks obnoxious enough to be shared with the entire neighborhood—she drove me crazy.

There was only one thing to really keep me going at this point in my life, and that was Bryon Douglas, my boyfriend. I could tell he never liked stepping foot inside my house, didn't like Curly, didn't think much of Ma or Leon, though he seemed intimidated by Tim, which didn't surprise me. Most people were scared shitless of my oldest brother, and to be honest, I'd think they were pretty stupid if they weren't. Even if there were times when he could be decent, Tim was still a mean son-of-a-bitch, and he only got worse as time moved forward.

Bryon became a constant to me, someone who came around consistently, someone who talked to me, and listened. He sure was nice, but there were times when I could tell that he was gettin' mighty annoyed with me. When we weren't together, I called him up so that we could chat on the phone, and when we were together—usually with his "brother", Mark Jennings—we would hangout around the Ribbon, drink booze, make-out, smoke . . . really anything just to _have_ something to do.

I liked the way Bryon looked at me, the way he would sometimes tuck my hair behind my ear and tell me that I was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. I wondered if he was being truthful or not, but when I was drunk enough to be comfortable in my own twisted environment, it didn't matter. I had come to care a lot about Bryon in the three months that we had been together, but I wasn't sure that he honestly cared about me as much as he claimed.

Curly had plopped down beside me on the couch, interrupting my thoughts. "You goin' out tonight again?" he asked, raising an eyebrow with interest.

I shrugged. "I don't know."

It was obvious that Curly didn't quite care for Bryon, even though he was somewhat decent to him; I think he liked Mark a little better, but Tim wasn't fond of either of them, saying that they were too much trouble. I had to sarcastically laugh at that one—nobody was more trouble than Tim, and Curly wasn't too far behind him on that ladder. I think he meant that Bryon would turn out to be trouble later on, but not the kind of trouble like him. A different kind of trouble, the kind that would stick to you permanently like a tattoo or something.

"Ain't you talked to Douglas?"

I scowled. "Yeah, but I dunno what's goin' on tonight."

Curly sighed, raising his feet up to rest on the coffee table. "Whatever." And then his facial expression changed a little as he turned his head to face me. "You see Marielle around?"

"Nope."

There was a silence that engulfed us for a moment as I wondered about Marielle Thompson, who was pregnant with Billy Walkins's child—that godawful predator who still plagued part of my dreams in the night, who held some fucked up form of control over my head. But I told myself that I wouldn't ever let him get to me, because I wasn't weak, and I never would be classified as such.

Ma's voice echoed about the house. "Anyone gonna fold the fucking clothes?"

* * *

Bryon and I hadn't gone out that night.

I stared at my bedroom ceiling all evening, lost in thought over Marielle. The sky had darkened, the streetlights coming to life and illuminating straight through my bedroom window, casting shadows across the yellowing walls. It wasn't that I hadn't seen Marielle as much as I had been avoiding her. I couldn't bear to look at her pregnant belly and see the thing that was growing inside of her. I couldn't imagine a child belonging to Billy, being a part of him, and even worse, I couldn't bring the image to my mind of my friend carrying the child of my rapist—one which nobody knew about.

My teeth were grinding together as my chest seemed to squeeze, my breath becoming hitched in my throat. There was no way that I could ever tell Marielle about Billy, and the idea alone of doing just that made me feel terrible. What would it prove? Would she even believe me?

I stopped myself right there.

I would never tell anyone. There was only one person who had known, but he had been dead going on two years, and just like him, the incident of what happened to me had died, too. What was left of that night was skeletal and decrepit, the reminder of a time when I was weaker and stupid. It was nobody's fault what happened to me, except for my own. I had taken the drugs, I had gotten myself doped up, and I had let Billy have his way with me.

Sometimes the only way to survive was by creating a facade of yourself to conceal the lie.

It was easier that way.

* * *

Bryon never questioned me too much. He wasn't really big on toking grass, but he'd take a few hits here and there, though I mostly thought it was just to pacify me, or tune me out, or both. I liked watching him while he smoked, the fumes billowing out his mouth and emitting into the air around us. His eyes would darken a shade, and something about his demeanor would relax after a few minutes, and I liked watching how his features smoothed out.

He had a nice smile. "Angel, you sure are somethin' else."

I grinned, feeling higher than a kite. "You ain't too bad yourself, baby."

A small smile of my own graced my lips as I stared out straight ahead. I liked that Bryon would sit with me behind the gymnasium during our lunch period. Few words were barely spoken between us, and I allowed myself to wonder what a life with him would be like. I'd wanted to escape that shithole town for the longest time, wanted to just pick up and leave, but I had always known that it was a fruitless thought—I would simply end back up at square one. But there was something about Bryon that caused those urges to arise all over again, and I thought that maybe it was just the intoxication of the pot settling into my system, but I knew it wasn't.

Something about Bryon Douglas was just . . . blissful and dreamy.

"What are you staring at, Angel?" he'd asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"Nothing," I answered, taking another hit. "You look like you're in some kinda trance when you smoke, you know that?"

Bryon's lips pressed together. "Yeah, well . . . maybe it affects me different than you."

"Like drinkin'?"

He scowled, and I knew that he was thinking about how he'd broken down and gotten all sappy on me one night after he'd done some shots. Bryon couldn't really handle his liquor all that well, always turning into this overly emotional being after he got a significant amount into his system, and by significant, I mean significant enough for him—not even half of what my oldest brother could pack away on a good night.

But I liked Bryon, and I liked that he was . . . different.

The thing about him was that he never treated me harshly. Sure we had our disagreements, but he was the only boy who hadn't ever raised a hand to me—well, out of all the boys I'd dated anyway. It was a nice thing to be able to sit with a boy who wasn't always trying to get a piece of ass from you, or lift your skirt, or just plain talk dirty to you.

Granted, I was classified as one of those trashy girls, and maybe I liked sinning so badly that I was surely going to hell, but sometimes, it was just nice to be . . . _liked_.

Even if it was all brought on by artificial inducement.

* * *

I turned sixteen.

There was no party for me, and no presents given by Ma, who was sprung across the couch, one spring prodding through the side just below her ankle. She was asleep, an empty wine bottle on the floor where she must've been holding it. I sneered down at the sight of her—she was a pitiful thing, to be quite honest, and as I let my gaze trail over her thin frame, I wondered if she was me years down the road, stuck in the same shitty house with nothing but liquor for company to drown out my sorrows.

What a bittersweet form of woe, to live a life so estranged and forlorn, to have nothing but the burning taste of liquid to consume your thoughts. It was the darkness creeping up to sweep away the light that was barely existent on an overcast day, the sun disappearing beneath the horizon and dying so that the moon could brighten the darkened sky.

A smirk ghosted across my lips at the very thought. I was sixteen, suppressed in life by everything and nothing all at once, nothing to keep me going and everything to keep me grounded. It was sickening to live a life of nothing, to keep going with only darkness to greet you at the end of the tunnel. Ma was a fine example of that, and I allowed myself to wonder, if only briefly, if that was why she hated me so fucking much.

* * *

"You look fucking terrible."

Sylvia's grin was enough to make me want to punch her, but I didn't, instead taking a swig of whiskey to keep myself occupied. I don't know why I kept going back to hang around with Sylvia; she had nothing to offer me except for the memories that I'd rather forget altogether. She always looked at me funny, like she was trying to figure something out, and I remembered the last time I'd seen her, how she had looked so sickly. I considered the fact that she might be doing something, like shooting up, but there weren't no tracks on her arms, so I dismissed that assumption.

"Thanks, Angela," she spit back, even though her voice was sweet. "You're a little worse for wear yourself." She let her green eyes roam across my smaller figure. "How's Douglas?"

I smirked at the question, always enjoying the fact that I could rub it in her face that I was going steady when all she could round up were a few lousy road whores to shack up with for the night. Must've been pretty fucked up to keep up that sorta reputation, but Sylvia was desperate for the dough, and she wasn't dumb enough to start sellin' dope, so she sold herself instead. I didn't bother to tell no one, and Sylvia had a way about keeping some form of her pride, so we left it at that.

Another swig. "He's good. Ain't boring me or nothin'."

"Mm," she hummed, running her fingers through her thinning locks. "You don't sound convincing, Angel." There was a taunting sound in her voice. "You sure _you_ ain't boring _him_?"

Socking her was becoming very tempting. "I don't bore no boy." The side of my lip curled up as I dared a look straight into her own smug irises. "They come after me, not the other way around."

It was a low blow, but Sylvia's always been tough, and she don't back down. "Well, it ain't like you had to split and survive on your own. Gosh, why do ya gotta be such a fucking bitch?"

"Why do you gotta ask stupid questions?"

We sat in silence on her couch, the sinking cushions making my rear fall asleep. In a flash, Sylvia lunged across me and swiped the liquor from my grasp, stopping within a few inches of my face to offer me her one-of-a-kind grin, one that meant business.

"At least I got away," she said, her breath winding my face. "At least I ain't gonna turn out like my Mama, not like you, darling."

A grim but genuine smile was my only response when I took my leave. It didn't matter what Sylvia had to say or what she thought. She only knew so much anyway, so her words couldn't get to me—it wasn't as if I could feel them either way. We would see each other again and go on like nothing had occurred between us, like we were just fine and dandy in a world that had long ago forsaken both of us. It was the natural order of things, like those fucking cycles.

* * *

 _For they sleep not, except they have done mischief; and their sleep is taken away, unless they cause some to fall._ —Proverbs 4:16

Bryon was the longest boy I'd been in a relationship with. We'd made it through the beginning of the school year together, nothing changing between us. I liked Bryon a lot, cared about him, but he seemed to be growing agitated with me, like when I called him up, or tried to loop my arm through his, or whatever else, he would pull away, and Sylvia's words seemed to chew away at me, as if she was right, as if I was boring my boyfriend of several months.

I decided to fix the situation the best that I could, so when I'd finally let loose enough to fully relax, I fucked him like I'd never done before. It ain't like we'd never fooled around before, but that time, I really gave it to him, hoping that it would reignite that spark that we both felt upon meeting each other back in the Spring. It wasn't like I depended on Bryon, but I wanted him with me, wanted him to at least care about me the way I cared about him. Bitter as I was, I wasn't a complete block of ice—not like most people liked to assume I was.

Bryon was a panting mess when I turned my head back to face him, my arms supporting the upper half of my body across the bench seat of the car he had jacked for the night. His face was glistening with sweat, eyes squeezed shut, his hands still gripping my hips. There was something about him being in that state that empowered me, that made me feel like there was some form of control in my life for once, and it was all because he was induced with the pleasure I had given him—it was my doing that swelled him with such ecstasy.

"You okay?" I asked, shifting my body so that I could sit beside him. I ran my hand through his moist hair, pressing my lips to his cheek. "You're trembling."

"Fine," he answered, reaching for a beer. "That was—"

"I know," I said, forcing a smile across my lips as I tilted the bottle back more for him. "Your sounds of pleasure told me everything." I winked at him, before stealing the bottle for myself.

Bryon chuckled, draping an arm around my bare shoulders. "Angel, you never stop amazing me."

"Someone has to," came the witty response, and then our lips were pressed together, and I was mentally saying _fuck you_ to Sylvia, knowing that there was no way in hell that Bryon was bored with me. I imagined her trying to pick up another sleazy man for the night, offering herself up with a fair price, her breath reeking of alcohol as she slipped more and more away from her own sanity.

My thoughts were cut short when Bryon eased us down against the backseat, my arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as we continued our blissful night. His grunts and groans filled up the car, deep and genuine, and I considered what he would look like with blue eyes and white-blond hair, his hands a little rougher and his gaze more piercing and captivating.

* * *

The air was cool as I left the high school one afternoon, bag swinging beside me and bouncing off of my hip as I walked down Fifth. I didn't have any plans of going home that afternoon, so I decided to head down to the tracks to be alone. Sometimes I just liked to think, something I really did too much of, not that it really mattered—it ain't like it would ever get me anywhere, nothing seemed to. But something about sitting down there beneath the bridge and listening to the rumble of freights going by was kinda calming, a kind of tranquil feeling I couldn't come across anywhere else.

I lit up a joint I had rolled the previous night, inhaling deeply as my eyes slipped closed. The wind was grazing at my arms, causing goosebumps to arise, but if I really focused hard enough, I was able to forget it, I was able to forget . . . everything. Thing was, whenever I imagined, or at least tried to imagine, my future, I was met with darkness, nothing there to greet me behind my lids. When I was younger, I liked to believe that there was something for me, something that existed out there just for me, whatever it was, but I knew better now.

Perhaps I was just a bleak individual, or maybe I had long ago forgotten the stories that had been taught to me at a young age. In the long run, I would forever be sitting beneath the bridge beside the train tracks in downtown Tulsa. I would forever be _this._

The sound of footsteps approaching me caused my eyes to snap open, the joint resting between my fingers as I held my hand above my eyes to block the rays of sun from blinding me. When I was able to make out who was there, my mouth nearly spilled open at the sight of her, my stomach tightening automatically, a cold sensation moving up my spine and spreading across my shoulders and up my neck, practically paralyzing me.

"Thought I might find you here," Marielle said, moving to sit down beside me. "Ain't seen you around in a while, but I've sure been hearin' an awful lot."

The saliva in my mouth seemed to be increasing. "I've been around."

Marielle rolled her eyes. "Sure, sure." She licked her lips, rubbing a hand across her bulging stomach, a distant expression on her face. "Why ain't you spoken to me none?"

A shrug.

She continued on, though, despite my lack of any form of acknowledgment. "So, how long have you and Douglas been a thing now?"

"Six months, maybe more."

"Longest relationship you've been in," she replied. "But you ain't never really been in a relationship, have you? At least, not a real one."

My teeth were grinding together. It wasn't Marielle that I was angry with, but it was the fact that she was beside me, the thing inside of her, the reminder of Billy Walkins, and the reminder of everything else that came along with him. Marielle didn't know that, and therefore she couldn't understand, but none of that stopped me from wishing she would just get lost. I didn't want to see her, I didn't want to see anyone. I just wanted to be left the fuck alone.

"What's it to ya?" I asked, taking another hit, wishing the drug would just settle my damn nerves. "Bryon is different anyway."

She cocked an eyebrow. "Is he? You goin' soft now, Angel?"

"Could ask you the same thing," I pointed out, a dangerous tone in my voice as my eyes lingered on her stomach. "When are you due?"

"End of January."

It seemed rather fitting that it would be Winter. I couldn't imagine anything that was a part of Billy Walkins being anything but cold and harsh. I imagined Marielle delivering their child on a cold and bitter night, the briskness of the season at its fullest, the streets dark and empty, snow flurries making their way down upon the sidewalks, the sound of a newborn baby's cries filling up the silence.

* * *

"Who was that?" I asked Tim, watching a red-headed boy walk away from our house. He seemed familiar somehow, but I couldn't place him.

Tim turned back to face me while I stood in the doorway. "Ponyboy Curtis, you know, Darrel's kid brother . . ."

"Oh," I mumbled, stepping outside to light a cigarette. "I don't hardly remember him."

"Don't suppose you would," he responded, holding up a faded envelope for me to see. "He gave this to me saying he wasn't sure what it was 'cause he didn't bother to look inside. Guess he thought I sent it to Winston or something while he was locked up. Said he found it in a box that Buck Merril gave to Darrel a while back." He sighed, lighting up his own cancer stick. "It had all Winston's stuff in it, and I guess he thought it appropriate or somethin' to give to the Curtis'."

I inhaled hardly. "So why is he giving you an old ratty letter, then?"

Without saying a word, my oldest brother passed the slip to me, crossing his one arm over his chest as he smoked casually. I placed my own cigarette in Ma's ashtray on the table beside her rocking chair, my eyes roaming over the envelope. I'd known what it was before I even pulled the folded card out of it, my old childish handwriting staring back at me. I had been a naive child, sending a Christmas card to Dallas Winston while he spent the holidays in the cooler, naive because I thought that he would write back or somethin', but he never did.

I was surprised that he'd even kept it.

 _December, 1960_

 _Merry Christmas, Dally!_

 _Love, Angela_

* * *

I hated whenever Bryon dragged me to Charlie's bar. Charlie was a cool guy an' all, but he was always going on that both Bryon and Mark owed him money, and it was so fucking annoying listening to Mark come up with the same lame-ass excuses. Yeah, _sure_ he would fucking pay up eventually, but Charlie was such a sucker and gave him and Bryon Cokes anyway. He would smile at me, but it wasn't always friendly, and I knew it was because he knew Tim and Curly, and he didn't think too much of me, either.

There was hardly any action at Charlie's, but Bryon—even when he wasn't with Mark, which was rare—was always lookin' for a good game of pool. He thought he was a decent hustler, which he was, but he was too arrogant and cocky, and those traits were only emphasizing every day. I think it had a lot to do with Mark, to be honest—Mark was the wild child. If it weren't for him, I'm pretty sure Bryon wouldn't have done half of the shit he'd done, but I ain't gonna lie—watching Bryon do crazy shit was . . . hot.

Then again, for as hot as he was, he was pissing me off. Bryon had started ignoring me again. I didn't like being made a fool of, and I certainly didn't appreciate my boyfriend paying zero attention to me, like I was just some lousy chick he kept around for cheap thrills. So while he went and joined in on the game of pool between some older cowboys in the back, I up and left his sorry ass. I hopped in the car, smirking at the thought of leavin' him there to walk, and floored it down the road.

Maybe he would take the fucking hint.

* * *

"Where the fuck have you been, you little bitch?" Leon was yellin' again, the liquor potent in the air around him from his disgusting breath. "Answer me, dammit!"

"I don't answer to you," I bit out, shoving my way past him. But Leon was quick, and like a flash of lightning, his hand reached out, entangling itself in my hair and ripping me back into the living room, his beady eyes glaring down at me.

"Who the hell do you think yer talkin' to, huh?" he asked, his fingers curling around tighter. "I pay the fucking bills around here, so this is my house, and you do as I say."

My teeth were pressed together, eyes narrowed. "Fuck . . . you," I managed to choke out, kicking him as hard as I could in the shin.

Everything was a blur after that. Leon was all over me, hitting, yelling, grabbing. He was a force to be reckoned with, an explosive volcano erupting in all its vigorous glory. I held in my cries, wishing that he would just fucking stop, but the blows kept raining down along with the endless string of profanity and insults that fell from his lips.

It was when I heard the snap of a belt buckle that my body seemed to come back to life. Fighting Leon was always fruitless on my end—he was a brute man, tall and towering and intimidating—but right then, something surged inside of me, and I pushed and clawed back at him with all my might, wishing, hoping, _praying_ , that he wasn't going to . . . going to—

. . . my muffled cries faded into the darkness along with the rest of me.

* * *

 _You ever been kissed, Angel?_

 _Let me take you home, Angel._

Winston's voice was replaying like a broken record in my mind from years ago, my lips parted as I stared ahead at nothing. I wished that I could just blank my mind and forget everything, I wished that I could simply never wake up again, and I wished that Leon had just killed me. The remnants of my vomit was still lingering in the bathroom sink, my body collapsed on the cold tile below the counter. I couldn't seem to feel anything, couldn't seem to think. Every part of me ached and screamed whenever I tried to move, and my lungs burned whenever I took a breath of air.

My hand was shaking as I twisted a string of my knotted hair around it. It was funny that whenever I touched my hair, Bryon's face appeared in my mind, a shiver moving up my spine. I wondered where he was then, why he hadn't bothered to call, why he hadn't bothered to show up, and then I wondered how long I had been laying on that dirty floor; it seemed like hours, maybe days, but I wasn't exactly thinking straight, either.

Eventually, I pushed myself off of the floor, grabbing a hold of the sink to support myself, my legs wobbly and my arms weak. I felt sick all over again as I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, wishing more than anything that the fucking thing would crack into pieces . . . that way it would show a real reflection of me.

* * *

 **Thank you, as always, for the continued support on this story. :3  
**


	8. Let Not The Sun Go Down

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns** **The Outsiders.**

* * *

 **wrath:** extreme anger (chiefly used for humorous or rhetorical effect)

 _A wrathful man stirreth up strife: but he that is slow to anger appeaseth strife._ —Proverbs 15:18

I stared at the lot where The Dingo used to be, pieces of the exterior piled on the gravel in a massive heap of blackened destruction. I ain't exactly sure what happened, but apparently there had been a real wild fight and somebody blew the place up. It seemed strange to look at it then and remember all of the fights and action that had taken place there, the memories of rowdy greasers hanging around and chatting each other up, getting the scoop on everyone else and finding out what was going on in town.

The place held a real and authenticated significance on this side of town, especially for the people in the lower outfits. But the thing was, the times were changing, and with it, so were the people. The vendetta between greasers and Socs had become a thing of the past, leather jackets and slicked back hair fading out, and the social class divide seeming to dissolve with it. Socs started dressin' like they were poor, and they became something more like a liberated class of individuals, and greasers started combing their hair down and blending in with society. There were peace groups, all kinds of movements and shit, and there was this thing called _acceptance_.

People were just . . . _people_.

Free love, peace, hippies, and all that groove were taking over, attempting to decimate the hatred of this town, along with the rest of the world. Well, good for that movement. I supposed it was nice to dream and pretend that things would somehow be okay, that humanity as a united whole could really destroy evil, or whatever. But, like I said, things were changing, and very rapidly, too. Even the music had changed—the styles, the behaviors, the interaction, it all changed, and the ways that I had been accustomed to for so long were dying out, and I felt stuck in an era of the past while the world moved forward without me.

I'd miss The Dingo, I supposed.

* * *

Bryon's mom became sick with something, and, as a result of her illness, Bryon grew more distant with me. He was starting to get a little reckless, too, not that his behavior was a surprise. Mark was crazy and wild and a lot of fun, and Bryon was starting to act more and more like him, and because of that, he was hardly givin' me any attention, and I was getting mad. I was his girlfriend. He was ignoring me, barely speakin' to me, and making me out to be some kinda pain in the ass. I called him up a lot to chat on the phone, even asked about his mama, but you know what he did? He got all annoyed and hung the phone up on me—bastard.

Maybe I could've been a little more sympathetic toward Bryon's problems, but I wasn't any good with that sorta thing, so I merely did my best to play the role of a good and supportive girlfriend, blah, blah, blah. When that didn't work, I got angrier, angry enough to want to pay him back for the way he was treating me, and what I wanted, I got, plain and simple.

I formulated a mastermind plan to make Bryon jealous, to let him know what I was worth, and if he took the bait, which I figured he would, he'd be mine all over again. I don't fuck around when it comes to taking—or reclaiming—what's mine, and I certainly don't fuck up when it comes to going through with it, either. I might have cared about Bryon a great deal—he was the only boy I ever really cared about—so I was going to make sure that he stayed with me, and what better way than to go by making him jealous? All it took was to stir up a little bit of rivalry between him and some hunk, and Bryon would be back to wantin' me, and all would be good.

I considered my plan while I puffed on a joint, my head relaxed against the back of Ma's rocking chair, eyes closed. I had been doing my best to act as normal as I could, but being in that house only made me frigid, like everything and everyone was against me. Even the fucking air was thick and foreboding, a kind of warning circulating in it. It was infectious and nauseating, and every fiber of my being screamed at me to get the hell outta there, but where could I go? What would I do? I had stayed at Sylvia's a few times, but the reminder of her words about me and Bryon only made me feel like shit, so I had quit hanging around with her.

Buck's place had been a considerable option, but even the roadhouse had me anxious. There was no comfort for me anywhere, so I sucked it up and stayed at the house, the place I called home, though it didn't feel like anything a home should feel like, and let my mind be plagued more and more by the insufferable memories and haunting nightmares that leaked from every crack and crevice of the interior, my mind slipping further away with each passing second I spent there.

Tim slammed the screen open, stepping outside as he lit up a cigarette, moving to stand across from me while he leaned back against the railing, which wasn't quite sturdy. "You hear about Soda Curtis?"

"What about him?"

"He got drafted."

My eyes snapped open as I leaned forward in the chair. "Where'd ya hear that?"

Tim shrugged, taking a drag of his cancer stick. "Curly told me the other night. Said Ponyboy told him so, or somethin' like that." He sounded off, but Tim was cool to the point that he remained considerably nonchalant. "I was thinkin' about stoppin' by their place, see how Darrel's handlin' shit over there."

I knew Darry Jr. and Tim weren't tight or nothin', but they respected each other. There was a mutual understanding between them, and even though gangs were dying out, Tim was still a leader and took those kinds of things seriously, even if the oldest Curtis brother was nothin' like him. As I thought about them, Ponyboy's face came to mind, and I remembered the day he'd stopped by just to give Tim that letter he'd mistaken for being from him. Too bad he didn't know the truth, but I was sorta glad that he hadn't bothered to look inside the envelope.

I considered the youngest Curtis sibling for a moment—Ponyboy was the perfect candidate to make Bryon jealous, I figured—he was attractive, smart, and well-liked.

Tim continued talkin', oblivious to the fact that I'd already moved on. "Ya know Steve Randle, Soda's buddy? Well, he enlisted because of Soda's draft." He shook his head. "Kid's fuckin' nuts."

I bit my lip as I considered what would happen if Tim's or Curly's number got picked. My brothers were jerks, but they were still my brothers, and I really didn't know what I would do without either of them. But the war was inevitable, and I'd heard enough stories to know that there wasn't much hope for the guys around these parts who got drafted. Tim was right—Steve Randle was fucking crazy, and I assumed that he was afraid of letting Soda go in alone, so he'd done the only thing he could think of.

Hell, I wasn't sure if it was noble or just plain dumb, but it was something.

"Tim, what would you do if you were drafted?"

His smoldering eyes were hard, but there was a blank expression on his face. "Well, I wouldn't ask ya to pray for me, 'cause we both know that it'd be useless."

"What about Curly?"

"I'd send his ass to Canada."

* * *

I stared at the pile of dirty dishes that nobody bothered to clean. The air was stuffy, and there was a fly swarming around the garbage bags, which nobody took out, either. Then again, there wasn't one member of the household that liked to do anything remotely close to cleaning. Ma would bitch and complain when she was sober enough to know what was goin' on around her, and then me or Curly would take care of it. Tim paid the bills here and there when he was able to get enough dough, so me and Curly split the chores, whenever we got around to them.

Figuring that the damn mess wasn't gonna clean itself, I had set to work, a grimace on my face as I scrubbed the dishes squeaky clean, dried them off, and placed them in the cabinet. I took the garbage out next, swatting the fucking flies away as I did. Glory, but the place was a pig-sty, and I wondered why Ma never actually bothered to clean up, always bitching at one of us to do it for her. I ain't exactly complainin' about doing house work, but Ma didn't do nothin' anymore except drink herself senseless; I wouldn't be surprised to learn that she had liver damage with the way she drank.

The front door banged open, and I immediately stiffened, the muscles in my back tightening as Leon's face came to mind. I had been avoiding him all too well for the past few weeks, telling myself over and over that I wouldn't cower away from him, but sneaking around was proving that I was doing just that—being a blasted wimp. I kept my focus on wiping the counters off as the sound of footsteps grew closer to the kitchen, and then a familiar voice called out, causing my gut to practically flip.

"Your brothers around?" Billy Walkins asked. His voice was unmistakable, and a visual memory of him pinning my wrists down as he forced himself on me became clearer and clearer in my mind.

I kept my head down, eyes on the grimy counter top. There were bread crumbs clustered around one of the canisters beside the sink. Funny, I hadn't noticed them when I'd gone over that area the first time, but I figured my thoughts were elsewhere. My breath had hitched inside my throat, a raw and burning sensation preventing my voice box from working.

I licked my lips as Billy walked further into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and grabbing a beer from inside—Leon's beer. I could feel his eyes roaming across me, and all I could think of was Marielle and her pregnant belly, and my jaw clenched. Every muscle in my body seemed to tighten, my feet grounding me in place so that I couldn't move. Billy's presence had a terrible effect on me, one that I loathed, one that told me that I was terrified.

"You gonna answer me?"

My eyes shot in his direction as I dropped the sponge in the sink. "They ain't here, and you shouldn't be, either, so get out."

But Billy only smirked, leisurely dropping his arms back down, the beer bottle bouncing off the side of his knee. "I can come in whenever I want, darlin'. Did you forget I'm a member of your brother's gang, or somethin'?" His voice was smug, agonizingly so. "You ain't the boss 'round here, baby."

I was seething. "I am the fucking boss when my brother's ain't here, and I'm tellin' you to get the hell out!" My voice had risen a considerable amount, each octave becoming more like a screech that reminded me of Ma. "Go!" I ordered again, turning away from him.

My hands were gripping the edge of the sink, shoulder blades protruding as I pushed back in an attempt to relax myself. But Billy didn't leave, instead deciding to approach me, his face in the reflection of the window screwing up in some twisted smile. My teeth were grinding together, and I felt a current of utter panic surge throughout my veins, eyes darting around for something to defend myself with. I didn't really know what Billy Walkins was doing, or going to do, but I didn't feel safe around him, and I sure as hell wouldn't ever let myself be vulnerable around him ever again. My gaze landed on Ma's steak knives, and without a second thought, I leaped forward, securing one in my grasp.

Billy's eyes broadened as I pointed the knife at him, his smile dissolving immediately. "What the hell are you doin', kid?" he nearly shouted, placing the bottle on the counter. "You crazy? Put that thing down, 'fore you hurt someone."

"That's my intention if you take one more step near me," I growled, ready to strike. I probably looked like a fucking maniac, but I didn't care none. "I told you to get the hell outta here."

"Angela—"

"Don't call me that," I said, a sharpness in my voice. "Don't you dare say my name."

My vision was becoming tinged with red, teeth digging into my bottom lip as it curled back. I could kill him, I thought, and I wanted to, I _really_ wanted to. I wanted to make him suffer everything that he had put me through, and I wanted him to hurt—I _needed_ him to. Tim had taught me years ago how to fight with weapons, and I was more than willing to exercise my knowledge on Billy Walkins. My body was pumping with the need to release all of the energy casting throughout it, and between the panic, the desperation, the guilt and shame, and the increasing need to release it, I lunged when Billy did, his hand wrapping around my wrist to prevent me from sticking the knife into his chest.

I don't remember too much, only the struggle between Billy and I ending up with him shoving me back against the counter, the weight of his body pressing against mine, causing me to feel every outline of him—even his breath was feathering my skin—and then he was screaming, blood gushing out of his skull as he cradled the open wound, glass from the beer bottle spraying the both of us and cutting parts of my arm before I dropped it to the floor, unable to thoroughly process what had occurred. The knife, still clean, was still in my other hand, and I was unsure of how I'd even managed to reach for the beer bottle that quickly, my head spinning.

I ran.

* * *

Marielle Thompson gave birth to a little boy in January.

I never had a chance to see him, but I heard that he was the spittin' image of his father.

* * *

My plan with Ponyboy fell through.

Bryon and I strolled down the hallway one afternoon between classes when I spotted the youngest Curtis brother, and I made sure that Bryon was lookin' at me when my eyes landed on Ponyboy, a tiger-like smile stretching across my full lips as I watched him. Instead of crawling back to me, Bryon only became more distant, estranged even. He didn't answer my calls anymore, ignored me at school, and then he just quit talkin' to me altogether. I figured that a lot of it had to do with his mother getting some big operation, but if he was gonna ignore me, I decided to break things off with him. I had a feeling that he would come back to me at some point, and I made sure everyone knew it, especially when he started goin' around tellin' everyone that _he_ had broken up with _me_ , ravin' about how I wasn't any good, that I was a bitch, that I was a lousy lay—the prick.

The fucked up thing was that Ponyboy Curtis acted like he didn't even know him and me existed on the same fucking planet. Truthfully, I didn't quite give a shit—I'd only wanted to get a rise outta Bryon, thinkin' that he'd pay more attention to me if he thought he was losin' me. Turns out, Bryon had been done with me for a while, but I still clung to the hope that he'd come back.

And what a waste of hope that was.

* * *

 _If you're going to San Francisco, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair, if you're going to San Francisco, you're gonna meet some gentle people there . . ._

Scott McKenzie's voice was gentle in the background, my eyes closed while a joint rested loosely between my fingers. In the weeks that followed after my split with Bryon, I'd gone to more parties, gotten high a lot more, and drank considerably. It wasn't that I was hung-up over Bryon Douglas, but I needed something to do to keep myself occupied. Things at home sucked, and it didn't help that people had heard that I'd practically shredded Billy Walkins's skull with a busted beer bottle. I didn't care about nothin', and as the days past, I grew more bitter.

The girls that I started hangin' around were just that—girls I hung around, which was really just out of convenience, that way none of us had to be alone while we strutted ourselves down the Strip. Half of the time, I didn't even know what the fuck I was doing, and for once, I didn't care. I had forgotten about Bryon, and Leon, and Billy, and I liked it. I liked that I didn't have to think, that nothing had to matter in that state of mind.

I do remember Dean Mathis finding me one night, though. He was pretty blitzed himself, a gleam in his eyes as took a seat beside me in the back of somebody's pickup. I only stared at him while he rambled on about stupid shit, my gaze focused on his light hair and blue eyes. I remembered why I went to bed with him the first time, and the feeling returned all too quickly, perhaps due to the intoxication, and before either of us could process the situation, my lips were pressed against his, one hand cupping his face and slithering to the back of his neck, and his fingers snaked around my leg, tugging me so that I could straddle him.

We left together that night, and I told myself that it didn't matter that he was the one who had given me a reputation at fifteen, that it didn't matter that I was trying to envision him as somebody else, and that nothing mattered—absolutely nothing. Everything was a bliss all at once, and while Dean worked me over, I could only imagine calling out another name, wondering what it would sound like in the pitch of pure and utter ecstasy.

 _If you come to San Francisco, Summertime will be a love-in there . . ._

* * *

 _Be ye angry, and sin not: let not the sun go down upon your wrath: Neither give place to the devil._ —Ephesians 4:26-27

"Alright, alright," Sylvia called from the opposite side of the door. Her voice was high-pitched and thin, the sound of annoyance seeping through. "I'm comin', I'm comin'." A moment later, she pulled the door to her apartment open, her eyes seeming to enlarge as her gaze landed on me. "What the hell happened to you?"

I was sure that I looked like shit, and I sure as hell felt it. I hadn't known where else to go, though; it ain't like I talked to many people, and it ain't like a whole 'lotta people liked me, so I'd taken the bus all the way downtown to Sylvia's, a nauseous sensation creeping throughout my entire body. I hadn't shown up to school in days, and I knew that people were sayin' some lousy shit about me.

"I need to tell you somethin'," I barked out, practically shoving my way past her to get inside. Glory, but Sylvia lived in a real shithole. "And I need some help."

"Shoot," she said, lighting up a cigarette, "I thought you were here for free booze or somethin'." Her eyes trailed across my form, and I clenched my jaw. "But you don't look like yer in the mood to drink any. What's wrong with ya, Angel?"

The words fell past my lips before I could stop them. "I'm pregnant."

Sylvia nearly dropped her cigarette, her mouth spilling open. "Is it Douglas's?"

I could hear the fuckin' bells alright. I was angry, so, so angry, but there was nothin' that I could really do to help myself. I had considered on not telling Sylvia because I knew what she would do, and I wasn't lookin' forward to hearing her puttin' me down.

"No," I answered, and lit my own cigarette with shaky hands. "It's Dean's."

"Dean Mathis?" she guessed, raising an eyebrow. "Well, I'll be damned, Angel. How in the fuck did you get wrapped up with him, huh?" She let out a squeaky laugh, one that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. "Hell, he's good-lookin' an' all, and once, I offered to let him stick it in me, not without payment, of course, but the only thing he said he'd pay me for was head, which was just too bad." At my silence, Sylvia sighed, plucking her ashes into the ashtray on her makeshift coffee table. "So, did you tell him?"

My eyes narrowed. "No, and I don't plan on it yet."

"Well, you'd better, 'else yer gonna have some serious problems, if you don't already," she pointed out, taking a sip of somethin'. "You ain't told Tim, either, I reckon, or you wouldn't be here." She nibbled her bottom lip, almost looking thoughtful. "What exactly do you want, Angel? I ain't never heard you ask for help, ya know. There's gotta be somethin' else goin' on with ya." A sigh. "Look, I may not be the brightest crayon in the box, but give me some damn credit. I ain't exactly stupid."

Sylvia was right, and there was something sharp piercing me from the inside out. I kept thinkin' of Marielle and her baby, the look on her face when she'd told me that she was pregnant, the rumors people had started about her, and the fact that she was forced to marry Billy. Bile was rising in my throat as I thought about Billy Walkins, his child with Marielle, the one she had carried for nine months and had given birth to. And the thought of telling Tim made me sick; I could already see the look of disappointment across his face as Sylvia's words dangled over my head like a knife, because she was right all along.

I was just like her.

I was just like Ma.

* * *

I had thought that I was close to death at fifteen, but I was wrong. I was closer to it a year later, closer to it than anything else. I felt like I was suffocating in the week that followed my visit with Sylvia, as if I was buried alive or drowning in an inky pool, the pressure squeezing my insides but forcing me to stay alive anyway. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat. I could hardly breathe. My will to live was hanging by a thread, and whenever I closed my eyes, I was met with the sight of an unborn child, its cries deafening and unbearable. Up ahead in the distance, enclosed by a thick array of gray fog, sat a headstone, the markings illegible. The sound of whimpering followed suit along with the echoing of church bells, all leading up to a silhouette standing in the shadows, a crown of white hair framing an invisible face—it was always the same.

The rapid pounding of my heart was the only thing that woke me up, even though I felt like I hadn't slept in weeks. It took a minute before my stomach lurched, and then I was off running toward the bathroom, one hand covering my mouth before I bent over the sink, the contents of my gut coming up all at once, leaving me to gag before dropping down and slumping back against the tub awkwardly.

I hadn't seen the figure in the doorway until I saw the dark silhouette on the tiles in front of myself. My eyes met Tim's, his expression dark and empty. I wasn't sure what to say, or how he'd react to me tellin' him that I was pregnant with Dean Mathis's child, so I rubbed my head, listening to the faucet dripping above me.

"How far along are ya?" Tim questioned, the brooding tone of his voice low and quiet, a hint of danger lurking just beneath the surface, ready to strike.

I'd nearly chocked. "Tim—"

He was quick to react, stepping inside and twisting the knob of the tap further around to stop the dripping. "Don't fuck with me, Angela," he snarled, the level of his voice not once raising. "How far are you?" His eyes were smoldering and black as he stared at my stomach, and I'd wondered how he'd known.

I swallowed the forming saliva in my mouth. "I ain't sure." I tried remembering the last time Dean and I had slept together along with the last time I'd gotten my period. I had gotten it the previous month, before Dean and I had started foolin' around, so I couldn't have been more than a few weeks. My throat felt raw, and Tim's burning gaze on my crumpling form wasn't helping matters. "No more than three weeks. It can't be more than that."

And then the dreaded question. "Whose is it?"

"Dean Mathis's." I didn't have to look at him to know Tim's expression had darkened a million shades; he would fucking pulverize Dean. My chest was tightening, and I became frantic. "Don't hurt him, Tim, you can't." If I had ever wanted to die before, I wanted to right then—more than anything. "I ain't even told him yet."

Even though Tim was livid, he somehow kept himself collected, but Tim was always like that. He was dangerous and lethal—even scared me sometimes, but I knew him, and I knew that he wouldn't hurt me, no matter how much he was hacked off. I knew that he was too disappointed in me to listen to my pathetic pleas, and believe me, I sounded like a complete fool, even to myself. Where the hell was I? Where was tough Angela Shepard, the chick who didn't cower away from nothin'? Why in the fuck was I acting so pathetic?

"Don't worry," came my oldest brother's firm response, one which told me to do exactly that—to worry, because he was going after Dean. "You ain't gonna be the one to tell him." At my perplexed expression, he continued, a sneer on his face. "I'm gonna deal with Mathis when I see him." He shook his head. "I can't believe he knocked you up."

I was angry, then. "Oh, shut it, Tim. It ain't like I wanna be, you know that!"

"Well, then maybe you oughtta think about spreadin' your legs next time, huh?" he returned, sounding vexed. "Jesus Christ! You're fucking sixteen, Angel! Ain't you thinkin' of anyone but yourself?" He was seething. "Who the hell do you think is gonna support that kid? Mathis?" His fist connected with the wall before I could blink. "Fuck!"

"Tim—"

"Shut yer trap," he ordered, and pointed a finger in my direction. "I'll be seein' Mathis tomorrow, and we're gonna clear this shit up with Ma." His lips curled back. "There might be one way to save your rep before it's too fucking late."

And with that, he walked away, leaving me there alone.

The tap had started dripping again.

* * *

One week after the incident in the bathroom, I was married to Dean Mathis.

I guess the best thing about death is it's the only thing that waits for us in the end.

* * *

One night, while I laid awake in bed listening to the sound of a storm raging on outside, I suffered a miscarriage. I don't think I want to talk about it too much, or what happened afterward, but it was something that changed my life immensely, and every bit of pain that crept throughout my insides, along with the tears that stained my cheeks and the blood that soaked my flesh, caused me to die a little more inside. The life that I had been carrying inside of me was gone, and even though that I had been miserable about it, there was a piece of me that had died that night, too . . . and it was never coming back.

And nobody cared, but me.

* * *

I decided—in my mind—that I had never been pregnant, that Dean and I had only gotten married because we loved each other, which was the biggest crock of shit ever. But nobody needed to know the truth of what happened, either, and that was that.

Dean was an awfully lousy husband. He never went searching for a job, never bothered to treat me as if I was his wife, hell, he didn't even treat me good. I _hated_ him, I _hated_ what my life had become, and I _hated_ myself. I had always hated myself, but I grew to despise my entire being to such an extent that I could hardly wake up each morning knowing that I was Angela Shepard Mathis. Even looking at myself in the mirror was sickening, and with each passing day, I became more bitter, which caused me to want everyone else to suffer right along with me.

The rumors had flared about me, but I accepted them with nothing but a sarcastic smile. Yeah, I was Angela Shepard, married at sixteen years old to Dean Mathis, a no-good fucking hood who didn't give a damn about me, who didn't even want me around, and who talked lousy about me behind my back—the son-of-a-bitch! I had thought about killing him just to get him outta my life—I _really_ wanted to. We were supposed to be man and wife, but neither one of us could stand each other. I couldn't even stand his family. His mama was out of it and his old man kept trying to put his hands on me whenever he thought nobody was lookin', like it was all okay. Fucker.

"Why, you're just lookin' downright miserable, ain't ya?" Ma said, stepping out onto the porch. She was drunk—again—a cigarette secured between her fingers as she glared at me. "Where's the husband? I know he ain't tryin' to look for a job, so what is it? Gambling? Selling?"

My teeth were grinding. "What do you care for? Ain't like you think twice about me or what's goin' on in my life."

Ma was smiling, though. "Oh, hell, Angela, I wouldn't even try, but I'll tell you this, little girl, you's just like me, and in the end, yer gonna turn out just like me, too, with the way yer goin'. Ain't no doubt about it, either, good Lord." And then she chuckled humorlessly. "I almost cursed God for givin' me a girl. Heaven knows I wasn't ever able to take care of you right." Lighting up another cigarette, she leaned back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other. "You used to cry so damn much as a baby, and I couldn't take it. I could barely stand to hold you at times because you'd just keep cryin', lookin' at me like I wasn't any good. You always wanted Timothy, never me; you'd quit cryin' when he took you in his arms, always the fucking hero."

I was watching her carefully, wondering how drunk she was to be talkin' like that. I didn't remember half of what she was rambling about anyway, and I ain't sure I wanted to. But I remembered going to church with Ma as a little kid, I remembered her tucking me in and reading to me and saying nightly prayers, and I wondered what I had done to make her hate me so fucking much.

And with Sylvia's words echoing in my mind, and Ma's knowing grin, I think I had my answer.

With a bitter expression, I watched the sun go down, dusk settling in as the sky darkened, the beating of my heart against my chest letting me know that I was still alive.

* * *

 **Thank you for all of the feedback on this story! I appreciate you all so much!**

 **There are only a few chapters left. :3**


	9. Make My Bed In Hell

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. **

* * *

**conscious:** aware of and responding to one's surroundings; awake

 _The sorrows of hell compassed me: the snares of death prevented me._ —Psalm 18:5

I couldn't stand the sight of Dean, couldn't stand him anymore than I could stand myself. He had gotten worse, drinkin' himself ugly, disappearing for days on end, and getting in trouble with other downtown hoods. I'd heard some shit from Tim that I don't wanna think about, mostly because it made me hate everything more than I ever had. Ma had started harpin' on me about Dean strolling in at all hours of the night whenever he bothered to show his face around me, and Leon started acting violently, too. He had made it clear that, since I was a married woman, he wanted me outta the fucking house.

Tim had told him off real good, and Ma had sided with him, but only because I was sixteen and still in school. I couldn't stand it at that shithole, couldn't stand the pointed looks people kept givin' me when they thought I wasn't lookin, or the hushed comments that were made about me. And that's the fucking thing, ain't it? People don't stop talkin', don't quit lookin'. Ma always looked at me sideways, always sneered down at me as if she was waiting for me to turn out just like her—she could laugh it up all she wanted to then.

The only things that calmed be enough to act rational were booze and weed. I couldn't function without them, couldn't fucking do anything without them. It was almost like an obsession, a crave that wouldn't go away unless it was taken care of. It made me feel disgusting, but without the tingling sensation of the intoxication or the high, I was a lost cause—it was better than being sober. Dean was driving me crazy, Ma was driving me crazy, school was driving me crazy, everything was. I didn't know how much more of it I could take, but I was wearing pretty fucking thin, and I wanted out.

But there was no escape—there never was.

* * *

"Your old lady sure don't like me," Dean said, kicking his shoes off. The side of his lips curled up. "I can't believe I'm stuck with you."

I scoffed. "Well, you can get the hell out anytime you want. Ain't like you bother to do much showin' up anyway." My eyes narrowed as he lit a cancer stick casually, so casually, as if what I was saying had zero effect on him—bastard. "You think this is some kinda game, huh?"

"Nope," he answered, inhaling deeply. "I'm doin' my part, and you should, too." His voice dropped an octave, his hard face smoothing out. "I don't know what the fuck else to do, Angela."

I never hated Dean as much as I did then. All he ever did was make me feel damn lousy, never treating me right, and never bothering to try. This was all just some fucked up game to him, but I couldn't divorce his ass because of the church, and because Ma would wring my neck. She'd probably go on some fucked up spree of drinking herself six feet under because I—her failure of a daughter—had fucked up so much that I disgraced the family, not that it wasn't beyond disgraceful on its own.

That's all it would ever amount to.

But I was livid, and Dean was the one target that I had been after, especially after he hadn't bothered to have any contact with me in a week. I sat up on the bed, swingin' my legs around, so that I could sit beside him. I reached up and grabbed the cigarette from his hand, flicking it out the window, before I crossed my arms over my chest—I meant business.

"What you could do is go get a fucking job."

Dean's eyes were lethal, and for a moment, he reminded me of someone else. "And so could you, you little bitch. All you do is complain about this, and complain about that, and you're so fucking high and mighty. Well, I got news for you, woman"—He inched closer to me, his breath smelling strongly of tobacco and liquor—"I ain't playin' no game here."

"I'm sixteen, dammit, and I'm still in school," I growled, and when he ignored me, reaching for his pack of Marlboro, I swiped the entire thing from the nightstand and threw it out the window and into the rain with his first unfinished smoke. "You're nineteen, and all you do is louse around. You ain't trying worth shit, and you're tellin' me all I do is—"

The stinging sensation in my cheek from where Dean slapped me good and hard was enough to make tears brim my eyes, even though they wouldn't fall. My neck had cracked from the forceful blow, a tingling feeling still burning the sensitive area. Before I had a chance to react, Dean had already moved, his body hovering over mine as he pinned me down on the mattress, my head narrowly missing the wall, the cracked ceiling coming into view over Dean's lithe frame.

His voice was low and dangerous when he spoke next. "Don't you _dare_ talk to me like that, girl. We may not like each other, but I'm still your husband right now and there ain't a damn thing you can do about it, so you can just shut the fuck up. What I do away from you is _my_ business, and I don't owe you any explanations." His grip tightened forcibly, but only for a second—one which made black dots appear in my vision. "You're only good for one thing anyway."

And then he was gone.

" _Gonna be a nun some day?"_

" _Like hell, Winston."_

" _Could have fooled me. You're as prude as they come."_

* * *

Curly looked pissed, his hair disheveled and his teeth bared like he was ready to kill something. I was used to seeing both of my brothers riled up, but Curly was always more like an angry animal, whereas Tim remained level-headed, which was more dangerous than Curly's sporadic and violent tantrums. He was glaring at me as he sucked on a cancer stick, his eyes almost an exact replica of Tim's.

"What?"

"Saw Douglas tonight."

I felt my jaw clench. "Yeah, so?"

"He interfered with some shit," he replied harshly. "He's gettin' more brazen every time I see him, him and the Jennings guy—fuckers. Stole my fuckin' wallet, too."

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued only a little. "And how did Bryon steal your wallet?"

And that's when Curly dived into the story of how he and some of his cronies were messing around with M&M Carlson, one of those hippie, flower kids, or whatever. He was weird, but I never paid him any mind, didn't care to. Apparently, while Curly was fucking around with M&M, Bryon and Mark showed up and cleared them off, stealing Curly's wallet in the process. In my mind, I thought that Curly deserved what he'd gotten, but I didn't like that it was Bryon who'd done it, and that was the only thing that pissed me off just a little, or just enough, depending on how you looked at it.

I hadn't seen Bryon in quite some time, but ever since he'd ran his mouth about me, I had plans for him, big plans alright. I was going to remind him why people didn't mess with me. Maybe I still cared about him an' all, but it wasn't enough, wasn't enough to excuse what he'd done to me. I could feel the monster inside clawing its way viciously to the top again, and with a sweet smile in the darkness, I allowed it to fill me up.

* * *

Mrs. Philips sighed as she studied my file, and all I could do was offer her a sassy little smirk that I was certain unnerved her. She had always been intimidated by Tim and Curly, but I think she despised Curly more than Tim, mostly because Tim was intelligent where it counted. Curly tried too much to be like Tim, but he never bothered to use his brains—I pitied him. Thing is, Tim did awfully well in school, but he'd always been rather smart, smarter than the average hood anyway. Ma almost had a heart attack when he'd dropped outta school an' all, but then she shook her head and went on some rampage that he was gonna turn out just like our daddy.

"Miss Shepard—"

"Mathis," I said, a bitter taste in my mouth. "It's Mathis now."

The counselor blinked, and then cleared her throat. "Right. Mrs. Mathis." She trailed on about my failing grades, along with the fact that my teachers were concerned, blah-fucking-blah, and I zoned out while she did. I didn't get why she cared so much anyway, but then again, she _did_ get a pretty hefty paycheck for pretending to. I could only imagine what she thought of me then—married at sixteen years old, a sophomore in high school—I was certainly raising chins alright, and not in the good way, not that I cared. " . . . and you'll have to repeat the tenth grade."

I nodded absentmindedly, unaware of half of the conversation. "Is that all?"

"Angela," she began, and I thought, here comes the pity party. "You have a lot more potential than what you're showing."

At the tone of her voice, I could only roll my eyes. It ain't like she really cared about me, or anyone from my side of town. Why should I even pretend to care along with her? Or, better yet, why should I have to sit there and take her shit when I could be elsewhere, taking care of other things? I decided that, without Dean's—my useless husband—moving his ass and trying to at least provide for us, I was gonna have to step up and do it. My grades and school could go down the toilet for all I cared—just like everything else in my pathetic life.

So again I asked, "Is that all?"

* * *

I was stoned outta my mind one night when Dean came back to the house. My eyes were closed as I laid quietly on my bed facing the wall. I was pretty sure that they were bloodshot, the burning between my lids agonizing. Glory, but they were dryer than the Sahara Desert, I was certain, but it ain't like we had any drops or nothin', so I tried to sleep everything off. My body was numb, my mind seeming to silence itself for once, although I remained highly conscious of everything else, including every small movement of Dean, the smell of his stale cigarettes, the various other scents that wafted off of him every time he moved—I imagined that he had been out drinkin' or something, probably hangin' down the Strip with some loose whores.

He shifted beside me, laying back on top of the covers, his head a few inches from mine. I could hear his breathing, and oddly enough, I found some strange comfort in it. I still hated Dean more than anything, but the longing for someone— _something_ —that was just as alive and conscious as me was setting my feelings of hatred aside for the time being. I might have been tough, I might have been more bitter at that point in my life than ever before, but I needed contact—I needed to be touched, I wanted to be secure for just one fucking minute.

I licked my lips in the darkness, shifting a little as I concentrated on Dean's even breaths. It took a minute before I turned over onto my other side so that I could fully face him, and in the darkness, save for the reflecting streetlights, I allowed myself to envision somebody else laying there. I was only able to see Dean's light hair, which looked almost silvery in the dimness, and his lean body that I had gotten off on several times before, but my imagination was terribly strong at that particular moment, so I pretended, the tightening of my chest loosening only a little.

"What the fuck are you starin' at?"

"Shut up."

I didn't want him to speak, didn't want to hear his voice. I moved to my knees, unclasping Dean's belt and his jeans, slowly sliding them down. I could feel him watching me in the dark, but I prayed that he wouldn't say nothin', because I needed this, I needed to feel something, wanted so bad just to pretend that this was another time and place. My hand slithered across his pelvis lightly, trailing the soft hairs that led me to his most sensitive area. Dean's hips bucked a little as I worked his length, and then I straddled him, easing myself down as I studied his long hair. His soft grunts filled the space around us, and with my palms flat and my fingers spread against his chest, I closed my eyes, relishing in the feeling of his hands gripping my hips, the smell of smoke and faint liquor . . .

 _His_ name was always on the tip of my tongue, eager to spill out at just the right time, but just like my sorrows and desperation for something good, something better, I swallowed it down, ignoring the fact that I was never fully satisfied afterward.

At least Dean had kept quiet.

" _You're only good for one thing anyway."_

* * *

I had heard that Bryon was hookin' up with some new squeeze—Cathy Carlson. I almost laughed at the thought; Cathy was M&M's older sister or somethin', the same kid Curly and his stupid friends had fucked with before Bryon and Mark intervened. I thought it was quite funny. After me and Bryon had split, he seemed to be poppin' up in my life more times than ever before. It seemed like some sick fucking ritual, and I decided that I hated him.

Once I got wind that Bryon was taking little what's-her-name to a dance, I figured I would show up, too, just to rub it in his face that I didn't need him, and I certainly didn't want him like he thought I did; I was beginning to think that Bryon was low, really low, especially after what he'd done to me just months before. I was just sick of him and everything else in that stupid town.

I was dressed real good, in a short dress and heels, my makeup done just right—I'd always known that I was a real looker, and that night, it was all about rubbing it in Bryon's face. When I'd gotten there, though, I was surprised to find Ponyboy Curtis hanging around. He didn't have no date, and when our eyes met, he acted like he didn't know me. Well, that was just fine and dandy with me, because I had plans for him and Bryon both.

I wanted Bryon to suffer, and I wanted him to know how he'd made me feel when he started spreading those ugly rumors around about me, so I waited for him to get his ass there, and I didn't wait all that long, either. He showed up with Cathy Carlson, and I almost died of laughter at the sight of her—I couldn't tell her from M&M if I wanted to. Glory, the only thing different between them was that Cathy had a pair of tits, but holy hell, Bryon could have dated M&M and it wouldn't have made any difference what-so-ever.

And to set my plan into motion, I approached Bryon with a smirk. "Hi, Bryon."

"Hi, Angel," he replied, sounding disinterested. "You here with Curtis?"

I wasn't expecting that from him, but with Carlson hanging on his arm, I only uttered a few swears at him, making sure to call him a piece of shit, before leaving. What's-Her-Name asked who I was before sayin' that I was "a real lady" in a sarcastic tone—bitch. But she was outta her territory, and it ain't like what she said about me mattered anyway. She'd apparently come back from some private school or some shit, not that I cared or nothin', but I had to wonder how a girl her age—and she was only a year younger than me—had managed to come up with that kinda money. I'd leave that one to the imagination, because I knew her folks didn't come from much, and supposedly, she had put herself through school.

Bryon always did have a fondness for the . . . less classy, but there was a difference between Carlson and me—I knew the score well, and she was hopeful, too hopeful for a person in these parts. I knew with one look at her that she and Bryon weren't gonna make it. I figured she would be better off with a guy like Curtis, so once I was outta sight, I decided to make that thought come to life, and believe me, what I wanted, I got.

And I wanted Bryon to come after me.

* * *

The sun was setting.

I'd always preferred sunsets to sunrises, mostly because the day was ending and in between then and dawn was darkness. I supposed I liked saying goodbye to start anew, even though there wasn't ever anything to look forward to—life's greatest joys, I guess. The street was quiet, the only sound being the cars speeding down the road in the distance, and for once, there was a conscious tone of peacefulness, though I knew that it wouldn't last long—nothing good ever did.

I allowed myself to relax in Ma's rocking chair, lighting up a cigarette and enjoying the warmth that grazed my skin—Spring was just around the corner. Unfortunately, my moment of calm was interrupted by the feeling of something soft brushing against my leg, and with a small jump, I looked down to see a mean lookin', all white cat staring up at me, its haunting eyes gazing into my own. I froze, studying the eyes of that ominous cat, the pale blue irises cold and icy, and my chest seemed to knot up. The air shifted, suddenly becoming thinner, and I gritted my teeth as I tried to tear my gaze away from that . . . creature, all to no avail.

The eyes—they reminded me of _him_ , and I thought that I was losing my mind, that I was going crazy, because that was bizarre and disturbing. I wanted to shoo the damn thing away, make it leave, but I didn't, instead staying put in the rocking chair with a scowl on my face. The cigarette was burning away on its own, ashes scattering onto the arm rest as time moved forward slowly.

"What do you want?" I asked, glaring at the cat. "I don't got any scraps for you, so scram."

But the cat only sat still, and a dreadful feeling crept up my spine as I stared at it and it at me. There was something almost terrifying about it, but at the same time, I felt oddly comforted. I ain't sure why I did, but cats are supposed to be spiritual or somethin', so I went with that. Still, the damn thing only continued to stare on at me, and a nagging feeling settled in the pit of my stomach.

I tried again, staring at it's ugly face—it was ragged. "I told you I don't have any food for ya, cat, and ya can't stick around here."

The thing stood up and moved closer to where I sat, so I decided to test it. Once it was close enough to me, I dropped my arm to the side and wiggled my fingers to see if it would let me pet it. I liked cats, and animals in general, but this one was strange. I was curious, though, wanted to see if it was really as mean as it looked, or if it was just my imagination making me feel so off. The cat sauntered over to me the rest of the way, sniffed at my hand and butted its head against it, before nipping once at my index finger . . . and then it was gone.

"Enjoying yourself?"

I glanced up, squinting my eyes to see Sylvia standing across the street, her figure barely noticeable in the fading light. I smiled, though, and beckoned her over, glad that someone was around for the time being. I hated being alone for too long, especially at the house. Usually, I enjoyed it, but ever since the incident with Leon, and then Billy, I never felt comfortable being there alone. Tim and Curly both were locked up—again—and Ma was out . . . doing whatever.

"What are you doin' 'round here?" I asked, lighting up another cigarette. "You doin' business?"

Sylvia shrugged, stealing a cancer stick from me. "Came back to see the old neighborhood, I guess, but ain't nothin' changed."

"Nothing ever does," I pointed out grimly, wishing I was downing some shots. I could feel Sylvia's gaze on me, and I raised an eyebrow at her questionably. "What?"

She shook her head. "I heard about what happened with Mark Jennings and Ponyboy Curtis." A striking smile stretched across her face. "I'm surprised with you, is all."

The grin on my face was enough to make Sylvia cringe back. "I know what I'm doin'."

"Do you?" she quipped, flicking some ashes away. "You know, I just think you're lookin' for trouble, Angel, but then again, that's all you've ever been dealt, huh?" Her bottom lip curled under her teeth as she stared at me hard. "You just enjoy fuckin' up other peoples lives, too, don't ya?"

"It's what I'm good at."

And ain't that truth, I thought to myself, leaning back in the chair. But Sylvia was half right, too, even though she didn't have the whole scoop. I had set Bryon up at the dance, talked some poor dopey kid into startin' in on Curtis. I wanted him to fight with Mark, though, just to get to Bryon. I knew that Bryon would think that I was after Ponyboy, but I wasn't—I was after him, and what was better than going after something he cared about? I had seen Mark and Ponyboy hanging together outside of the dance, and I took my chance. Mark had gotten hit over the head, the dopey kid I'd manipulated into doing my dirty work getting arrested—poor sap.

Oh, it was just too bad, though, wasn't it?

The only thing left to do was wait for Bryon to come after me, and I knew he would.

"Sure," Sylvia agreed after a moment. "You know your mama is sellin'?"

I couldn't conceal the surprised look on my face. "What?"

"Yeah, I saw her downtown where the Brumly Boys used to hangout," she replied, a smirk creeping along her lips. "I knew y'all had it rough, but your mama, too?"

And there it was again—those cycles. I knew Ma was fucked up, and had been becoming worse off as time moved on, but the thought of her sellin' dope was unbelievable. When I pictured it, though, I was able to see it, just like I was used to seein' her—all soused and languid, useless and hacked off about anything and everything. Would that be me? I was halfway there already.

But death has always been inevitable.

That was the last time I had ever seen Sylvia.

* * *

 _If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there._ —Psalm 139:8

Word had it that Bryon and Mark had gotten caught up in some murder trial. I ain't so sure of what happened, but Charlie—the guy whose bar Bryon and Mark always hung around—got shot and killed. I had heard that they both witnessed it or something or other. I hadn't seen Bryon around in quite some time; the only thing I knew for certain was that his mama was outta the hospital and back to work. I was almost glad for Bryon, in some twisted way, but life had a funny way of cheating the odds. Bryon's mama made a full recovery, and Charlie died.

Weird how shit like that played out, ain't it?

I had learned that Sylvia was right about Ma—she had been sellin' some cheap shit downtown, and I had a funny feeling I knew what she was up to. Wouldn't nobody believe it, but I knew, and I knew that things were moving fast. One day I was gonna wake up and find that Ma had split. Now it was just a matter of when that day would come. I had been so lonely, so fucking alone, and the thoughts in my mind were enough to kill me, I was certain. There wasn't nobody around to talk to, to tell things to, and one afternoon when I was cleanin' out my room, I'd come across the brush Tim used to run through my hair, and I wondered what I would do when he eventually got locked up for life, 'cause that was just a matter of when, too.

During my isolation, booze became my best friend, more so than ever before. I found myself drunk off my ass nearly every night, not remembering what the hell had happened to me the next morning. Dean quit comin' around, and if him and me ever needed to talk or whatever, I'd usually end up at his place, dealing with his fucked up family—I hated it, hated it all. I was so used to thinkin' that I could get whatever I wanted, that nobody else mattered, so when things quit workin' out the way I wanted, I just quit everything altogether.

I was going to hell either way, so what did it matter?

* * *

I dreamed about Billy Walkins.

I was young again, eyes a little wider, smile more toothy, cheeks a bit more plump. The only sexual experience I'd really had was Winston kissing me. I'd never shot up before the night of that party when I was hangin' around Graham Parker, my skin clean and unmarked. But there I was in my subconscious state of mind, in that godawful nightmare, beneath Billy, his fingers wrapped tightly around my wrists as he held me down. I had thought that I would suffocate to death, the feeling of terror enveloping my entire being—so many times had I wanted to die that night, and so many times did I pray that I would after it.

Gone were those wide eyes, toothy smile, and plump cheeks.

No longer were there expressions of innocence flashed in awe at the wonders of life, no longer were there smiles of admiration directed at the little things, skin sinking back because it wasn't being stretched as often.

Death took everything in the end.

. . . and it made me this.

* * *

One night, I ended up hanging down the Strip. I was pretty drunk—didn't even know who the hell I was for the most part. I was talkin' to Cheryl Hayes, her and me passing a joint back and forth, as guys passed by us, winking and catcalling. Cheryl was pretty popular in these parts, her name more tarnished than mine. Nobody usually fucked with me, unless they wanted their faces rearranged by Tim. Curly would go after them, too, but he was mostly talk—Tim always backed up whatever he said.

"Outta the way. I want to see Angela."

My eyes widened when I heard the familiar voice, and I was overcome with emotions, too many at once, and glory, I felt sick. The world was spinning around me, but it wasn't fast enough for me to pass out yet, and I thought that Bryon somehow looked good right then. I jumped down off the car I was sitting on beside Cheryl, pushing through the swarm of girls that were flocking around Bryon . . . and Mark—fuck. I'd heard about Mark some, heard he was selling some shit. It was goin' around that Bryon's latest chick—Carlson's—brother was missing, the weird one. M&M. I hadn't really paid any of it much attention, didn't care to. Besides, M&M wasn't my problem; he probably wasn't even missing, the brat.

"Bryon!" I yelled, moving to stand in front of him, the smell of his cologne filling my nostrils. "Bryon, I'm so glad to see you!"

And for a moment, I was. I'd been waiting so long for him to come after me, even if he thought that I was after him and setting up Curtis a while back. Bryon was . . . familiar right then, something I could look at and remember that was halfway good. But, fuck, he really looked good—real good. I wouldn't do nothin', though. But I hugged him—hugged him good and long, because I wanted to feel that, I wanted to pretend that it was me an' him, that everything would somehow be okay again.

"Where ya been keeping yourself, Angel?" he asked, wrapping one arm around my shoulders. "How's married life?"

I'd nearly shoved the son-of-a-bitch away, a glint of anger in my eyes. "What the fuck, Bryon?" My words were practically slurred, but I was angry then. "Why the fuck would you even—" My jaw was clenched, and I suddenly wished for more booze. _Make it stop. Don't think._ But it was too late, and my thoughts were spilling from my mouth, eyes blurring with tears. "I never cared about him anyway. I thought I was having— I mean, I thought I was, but I wasn't—and that's the only reason I married him, the louse." I swore awhile, mad that I'd almost slipped about the pregnancy. But Bryon didn't even look interested in anything that I was saying, only disgusted. He hated me as much as I hated seeing him, but there was something about Bryon that made me let my guard down. "You're the only boy I ever cared about, Bryon."

"Sure," was all he said, before Mark intervened, offering to get more booze and to let me an' Bryon talk out our troubles or whatever.

I barely remember Mark getting a bottle of rum and some pop, and I hardly remember talkin' to Bryon while Mark went in and got everything. Everything was a blur—and all that I was able to remember was the three of us ending up at the lake and me sobbin' myself senseless. I didn't know what came over me, or what the fuck I was sayin', but I felt pretty damn lousy, and Bryon wasn't helping matters. I only recalled the distinct feeling of something not being right, and I kicked myself for ever getting into that fucking car.

But I was too out of it to care at that particular moment.

"I get so sick," I said in the darkness. "I feel like I can't take it any more, life is so lousy. I'm lousy, everything is lousy. I can't stand it at home, I can't it at school, I can't stand it anywhere. I always thought, hell, I can get what I want. Get what I want and everybody can go to hell. But it doesn't work that way, Bryon. I'm going to hell right along with them, I'm already there."

And that was the truth.

I'd made my bed in hell.

* * *

I'd woken up the next morning to find that all of my hair had been cut off. It was short, short enough that it looked like a replica of Twiggy. I knew it was Mark that had done it—Bryon was too drunk, and alcohol always made him emotional. Besides, I _knew_ Bryon, and I knew that he was too sensitive to pull a stunt like that, but I loathed him because he'd let it happen. It didn't matter, though, because I wasn't going to let Bryon Douglas or Mark Jennings get over on me, so I'd just say that I was lookin' for something different and went and had my hair cut.

Those two assholes didn't deserve the credit.

Only I could hurt myself.

But I would get even with Bryon for the last time, so when Tim and Curly got outta the cooler, I told them what happened, told them that _Bryon_ was the one who'd cut my hair. I knew Tim would beat the shit outta him, and that's what I wanted—that's what I told myself. I was a gutsy chick, I was tough, and even though I'd broken down a little, enough to toss my thoughts out onto the table, I didn't break, and I never would.

* * *

The morning dew of Summer was thick in the air, the condensation built on the windows and trailing down in small, thin strips. The house was eerily quiet, still even, a rarity in which I took pleasure. It was almost peaceful in a sense to know that I was alone, and for that time, I allowed myself to take it all in with nothing but my senses. It was early, very early, but the sun was bright on the horizon, the sky streaked with various colors.

In the few months that had past after Bryon and Mark had cut my hair, I'd learned a great deal about Bryon—he was different, far more than I'd ever known. I'd heard that he turned Mark in for sellin' all because M&M Carlson had a bad trip. I ain't sure what it was all about, but Mark had been arrested and Bryon dumped What's-Her-Name on Curtis, which I expected to happen.

I remember running into Bryon one day at the store he worked at after school had gotten out, and he'd seemed plenty different to me—I'd even tried taking a jab at him for kicks, but he only responded apathetically.

"How've you been, Angel?" he'd asked, ringing up my items.

"Well enough," I replied, staring at him. "I hear you dumped little what's-her-name on Curtis. Well, they deserve each other." He shrugged, and I continued. "You know, I'd thought for a long time you were really low, Bryon, but what you did to Mark really proved it."

His face had contorted for a second, but he remained bland. "Angel, you look really good with short hair."

Bryon didn't scare me none, but the underlying message in his words was clear enough. I thought about Mark behind bars and shut my trap, the image of a blond-haired, blue-eyed boy taking his place, and a cool sensation crept up my spine, my mouth becoming dry.

I made it a point to never see Bryon Douglas again.

And like the trailing condensation on the window pane, my time with Bryon Douglas dissipated into nothing, another piece of me gone into oblivion.

* * *

 **Only one more chapter left.  
**

 **As always, thank you so much for all of the support and feedback on this story! :3**


	10. Compos Mentis

**Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. The Lumineers own "Angela."**

* * *

 _Strangers in this town_

 _They raise you up just to cut you down_

 _Oh Angela it's a long time coming_

 _Oh Angela spent your whole life running_

 **death:** the action or fact of dying or being killed; the end of the life of a person or organism

 _The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit._ —Psalm 34:18

The air was still, the Summer heat intense and overbearing. The humidity was thick and sticky, the roads cleared of people because it was too hot to be outside. Nature was in full bloom, lightning bugs flickering around the area of the old and deserted park, the grass moist between my toes. The house had been too stuffy, so I took the liberty of leaving—Leon's snores fading into the background along with Ma's impatient sighs as she fanned herself with the morning newspaper.

I needed to get out of there, needed to find something to keep myself occupied, but the neighborhood was barren, the park vacant, and the area silent. I never liked the heat, but I liked the fact that it kept everyone else indoors when I wanted to be alone outside. The damn house always felt warmer somehow, the heat nearly suffocating.

My eyes landed on something in the distance—one lone flower standing tall and proud. It was always surprising how much more colorful and alive everything became during the Summer, but it never seemed to last long—nothing did.

But nothing lasts forever.

It's something that I had come to learn at a young age, something I'd learned to accept. Time changes things, and it takes and takes with so much greed, so much hunger. When I looked around the town I lived in, I noticed how much it had all changed in just three years. The people, the styles, the slang . . . it was all different. It was as if I'd woken up in a new era, a new time altogether, but in reality, there was nothing new—it was simply changed, and with it, time continued to move on, the clock ticking forward, a never-ending cycle that wouldn't falter.

Time seemed like an enemy the more I thought about it, and I wondered what the whole point of life was. Why did we all exist? What was the epitome of life when if offered nothing but cruelty? But I realized that death was inevitable and there would come a time when we would all fade into the darkness—death would consume us all. I used to wish for it as a young child, trying to wrap my head around the concept of life and death, attempting to understand the meaning of time. And then I felt that death had become a close friend, an old friend, but one which would always be lost to me.

As I had gotten older, I finally started to understand that death itself had always been more than just an old and close friend—it had been a part of me. Time moved forward, bringing change along with it, and death took what was left behind—it consumed. It was inescapable, unchangeable, and a bigger part of time than anything. Life would always give to death one way or the other, but they needed each other in the end, one unable to exist without the other.

The only thing that remained immortal was time—it was everlasting.

I wondered when I would fade from this world, when I would become as still as a dead flower, the reminisce of my life becoming nothing but particles in the wind, searching for some place to evanesce for all eternity.

Maybe one day I would find solace.

* * *

" _Your brothers know you're here?"_

" _Does it matter? I can do what I want, Dallas, so get lost. I ain't lookin' for your company, playboy, so go hang on another girl."_

" _Let me take you home, Angel."_

I remembered tellin' Winston what happened with Billy Walkins, but I'd always put the conversation outta my head, made like it never happened. What was the point? He was shot dead only two nights later, the only person who had ever known about the incident. Tim had guessed at it, never directly sayin' nothin', but he wasn't stupid. Tim was an insightful guy, really smart, too, but I would never be able to tell him. It had taken me quite some time to figure out why I'd ever opened my mouth to Dallas, why I had ever trusted him in the first place, but when he'd died, I made myself forget—it had always been easier that way, made things more simplified.

But the memories came tumbling back one morning while I walked through the cemetery, a place I hadn't been in a few years. I didn't know why I even bothered to show up, but there was some haunting reminder that two months from that moment would mark three years since Winston and the Cade kid had died. It seemed strange to me to think that it had been nearly that long, that the last time I stood there, I wondered what it would be like when I was Dally's age, and at this point, I was only a few months shy of seventeen.

The ride had been practically silent between us that night, eerie like. Dallas was always a grim person, a hard guy to talk to, but I was out of it, drunk on whiskey and tequila. I'd been so sick the following morning, thought that I was gonna die. We drove back into town, the lights from downtown flashing through the windows at us, the silence being the ghost of comfort. I remembered starin' at Winston, his eyes focused straight ahead, lips pressed into a thin line.

"I hear you broke it off with Sylvia," I said, my words coming out slow.

"She was two-timing me again while I was in jail," he replied, not even sounding the slightest bit off by dumping his chick.

I licked my lips, pressing my head back into the seat. "You fool around on your girls, too."

"They don't mean nothin'." His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. "There ain't any commitment with me and those broads, but Sylvia was different. We was together, ya know, so it wasn't the same thing."

My eyes were drooping, the intoxication speaking. "I wish somebody would love me, but I don't think it's gonna happen, Dally. I don't think I'm the kinda girl boys wanna really love." I could see his nose wrinkle in the darkness, my eyes heavy with sudden drowsiness. "Sometimes, I get so lonely, and there ain't anyone who cares how I feel, but I wish that there was. It don't work like that, though. Nobody cares, and they ain't ever gonna."

"You need to quit thinkin' so much, kid," he said. "Glory, but you're gonna drown in those thoughts if you keep it up."

"I always feel like I'm drowning." My limbs seemed to sag down in the seat, head lolling to one side as I stared out the windshield at the darkened scenery, the traffic lights flashing through every so often. I'd felt like I was in some sort of trance or something—I was gone. "When I close my eyes, I always see him, and there ain't no escape. Nothing really dulls the pain, either." I kept tellin' myself that this was all a dream, and the only reason I was running my mouth to Winston was because he could take it—he could bear it. He could take anything. "You know, I think that I can do a whole lot, do whatever I want and maybe somebody will notice, but nobody does, nobody cares. They just want me to go to hell, but they're too late . . ."

The car rolled to a stop, and then Dallas was lookin' at me hard. "How much did you drink?" Despite the serious tone of his voice, his face remained calm, an expression that reminded me of Tim. "You're talkin' crazy, girl."

"I ain't crazy," I retorted, forcing myself to sit upright. "But I wish I was."

"And any person who wishes they were crazy must be, so just quit talkin' already," he snapped, and lit up a cigarette. He inhaled deeply, his eyes hardening. Dallas was always scary lookin', and he always seemed pissed off about somethin', too. He continued to smoke for a few minutes before he spoke again, the tension thick around us. "Where the hell is shit comin' from anyway?"

I swallowed the building saliva in my mouth, focus distant. "Everywhere. But I can't help it. Nobody's interested in what I have to say, so I keep my trap shut. It's easier like that anyway; ain't nobody that has to listen, but sometimes, I . . . gotta say things, or else I'll . . ." A sigh. "Ya know, sometimes, I just really wanna die, just get it over with so I don't have to think anymore. But that's the thing, I can't, and the thoughts . . . I feel so sick sometimes."

"Yeah," he said after a minute, the cigarette halfway finished. "But you gotta quit feeling sorry for yourself, kid. You gotta think smart and not let shit get to you, understand?" The lines in his face seemed more pronounced as he scowled. "Toughen the hell up, and don't talk like that no more."

"You don't understand," I said, turning straight ahead. "Nobody gets it." And then in my hazy state of anger, I cracked, going on about that fucking party and shooting up with Graham Parker, and then Billy Walkins . . . and what he did, how I didn't want it, how . . . God, the pain, but it was my fucking fault, and I did this to myself. Because nobody could ever hurt me but myself, nobody would ever get the better of me, because I wouldn't let them. It was how things worked in the end—only I could . . . only I could destroy myself.

Winston didn't say anything, only sat there quietly. I'd never seen such a look on his face before—pure and calm vexation—but he remained silent beside me.

My voice croaked in the stillness, low but desperate. "I just want someone to— Everybody leaves in the end." _Inhale, exhale._ "You will, too."

And he had . . . two nights after that.

* * *

I followed my mother downtown one night. I'd gotten pretty used to her schedule, kept an eye on her when she thought I wasn't paying any attention. But I was always paying attention—to everything and to everyone—though she'd been too out of it to know what was going on. It made me awfully sick to really consider that Sylvia had been right, but I knew, I did. The fact that I had to admit it to myself was the hardest part, because even though Ma had done some fucked up shit before, I never imagined her as the type to be sellin'. Daddy had been a right sleaze, too, so I got a mixture of both of their fucked up habits in my blood, but I was turnin' out to be more like Ma every day.

It was silly to think that I was following Ma around to confirm for myself that the rumors were true, that she was sellin' the hard shit, when I was practically stoned every night. I needed the high to keep myself alive, to keep myself sane, to forget—it was the only way. Without Tim or Curly around to keep me some company, and Dean never comin' around, I was on my own. I barely spoke to anyone, except at school, but things were different, real different. The interaction and the way everyone went about things had changed, or maybe I had. But it don't matter none anyway.

I'd found my mother alright—she was standing on the corner of where Graham Parker lived, and I almost laughed at the thought of it. How amusing was it that my own mother could've been sellin' to the same kid who had gotten me started on shooting up three years back? It was twisted, so fucking twisted, but I was smiling, a glint of humor reflected in my eyes.

"Angela?"

I jerked around at the voice, my grin dropping as Graham Parker approached me. He looked different than what I remembered, a little taller, a little broader, and a stern countenance that made him look tired. His hands were tucked in his denim pockets, a cigarette behind his ear. He was lookin' at me the same way I was studying him, and for the life of me, I couldn't understand why I just wanted to laugh.

Hell, maybe I really was going crazy after all. Wouldn't that be something?

I tried to act casual, tossing my hair back and raising my chin. "I didn't expect to see you, Graham."

"You didn't, huh?" he said, and lit up. "See, that's funny, considering I live right down the street."

And at that, I forced a surprised expression across my face. "You do? Well, then, I guess it's just fate havin' us meet up, ain't it?" I eyed him up and down. "I thought you would've left this town by now, or are ya just stickin' around to get more kids hooked on shit?"

"Keep yer damn voice down," he bit out, taking a step forward. "This area is crawling with the fuzz."

"So you're still—"

"No," he answered before I could finish. "But I don't want no trouble, and you'd best get on outta here if you don't, either, kid. This ain't the place for you."

My lips pressed together as I stared at him. "Was it the place for me three years ago when you wanted me to try shooting up?"

"We were kids then," he replied, brows furrowing. "We ain't now, Angela, and things are different in these parts. You oughtta know that."

We stood there staring at each other for a minute, neither one of us sayin' nothin'. Graham's expression was a mix of desperation, annoyance, and confusion, but I figured that I'd come far enough to find out the truth about Ma, and the least Graham could do was play a role in my plan. I watched Ma from where I stood, watched as a carload of people pulled up, watched as she gave them some shit, and I watched as she stuffed a wad of bills into her pocket.

I smiled at Graham, and nodding in the direction of Ma, told him what I wanted him to do. He listened carefully while I laid my plans out for him, even gave him the dough to purchase whatever Ma was sellin'. They didn't know each other any better than I knew Ma at that particular minute, but I figured that, this time, I was going to get what I wanted—no beating around the bush. So when Graham came sauntering back to me a few minutes later with a bag of acid tabs, I thanked him with a sweet smile and went on my merry way.

Strangely, I couldn't watch Ma sell it to him, knowing that I was the one she was sellin' to. There was an uncertainty about going through with it, though, and I wondered how she would feel if she knew she had indirectly made me a customer. I could've laughed at the thought alone.

In the end of all things, only death was certain.

* * *

Summer coming to an end always brought new memories to life, but for me, I was wilting away inside, the blossoming for anything else impossible to occur. The only good that had come out of it all was that Leon finally split, makin' like he was never there in the first place. Strange, but I could still hear the echo of his presence in the house, and instead of bein' happy like I should've been, like I'd always get whenever one of Ma's lousy men left, I felt . . . nothing—absolutely nothing.

My seventeenth birthday had little impact on me. The only thing I thought about that day was that I was officially Winston's age—the age I fucking dreaded. There was only one positive outlook that came with it, though, and that was the fact that there was only one year left until I was eighteen—twelve fucking months. Unfortunately, eighteen for me didn't hold any sort of significance, as there was no place for me to go—hell, maybe I would up and leave Dean's ass behind. He seemed to be doing a pretty decent job of being a lousy husband—bastard.

I'd never given my future much thought. Every time I tried to envision a futuristic scenario for myself, I was met with an empty void—there was nothing. I had believed for the longest time that there would never be an escape for me, and the older I got, the more absolute that thought became. I felt numb, I felt gone. I was tired of everything, and most of all, I was so tired of thinking. I just wanted it all to stop, wanted it all to go away.

Ma's face came to mind, her light eyes and piercing expressions starin' back at me. There was a time when she loved me, I think, or I'd like to believe she did anyway. There was a time when we would go to church together, when things were more simple, but I had come to accept that things were no longer like that, and nothing ever would come close to it—maybe my relationship with my mother had been nothing short of a fairy tale.

I watched as the leaves changed color through Autumn, the air becoming cooler and the once vibrant scenery darkening. If ever a representation of me an' Ma, that was it—the life of Summer fading away, prepping for the callous Winter at the end. It was a brutal season, one I had been so fond of, because like everything in my life, it took.

A bitter smile stretched across my lips as an empty whiskey bottle slid from my fingers, the shattering glass falling deaf on my ears, the sky darkening overhead.

 _"At least I ain't gonna turn out like my Mama, not like you, darling."_

* * *

When Curly's draft letter arrived, the world seemed to tilt on its axis before coming to an abrupt and complete stop.

Nobody moved.

Nobody said a word.

I stared at my older brother for a second and no longer saw him as a tough street kid, but as a hollow and desperate boy—one who was scared stiff.

The only sound following the deadened silence was the flick of Tim's lighter as he lit a cigarette.

* * *

One night, I dreamed something terribly disturbing. It seemed bizarre to dream of such a thing, but my conscious mind had always found peace with death. The church bells were ringing in the distance, the brisk air of Winter lapping away at my flesh as I stood in the center of an old and abandoned cemetery. Shadows moved across the graves, the glimmer of light making it hard to see much. I could hear the sound of multiple people humming, creating an eerie melody of sorts.

And then a figure appeared to me, one that I recognized all too well.

 _His_ eyes met mine for only a moment before I jolted awake in bed, eyes broad with utter terror. My skin was littered with goosebumps, hands shaking as I recalled that horrific dream. My eyes squeezed closed, lips pressing together as I tried to forget, to remove the entire thing from my mind. But it was no use, and I was left to wonder what it all meant.

" _Everybody leaves in the end. You will, too."_

. . . please make it stop.

* * *

 _Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest._ —Matthew 11:28

I'd made the ultimate decision to drop out of school. I remembered considering it when I was fourteen or somethin', not really caring what happened to me or where I ended up. But I didn't care about anything anymore—I just needed to get away. The days seemed longer somehow, and with each one that past, a part of me felt swallowed away with it, the void inside growing all the more. I'd been feeling quite sick, more sick than I ever had, and more than that, I felt like I was left behind.

There was nothing for me.

It sounded fucking stupid, but all I wanted to do was sleep—just sleep and forget. It seemed to be the only way that I could find some sort of peace. But even when my mind was resting, it was never fully silent, and the thoughts would sometimes intensify.

"I'm surprised to see you around here so much." My focus snapped in the direction of Ma's voice, and I stared back at her from in front of the house. Her gaze was piercing as she looked me over, elbows resting on the arms of her rocking chair. "What's the matter? Ain't you got anywhere to be no more?"

"What's it to ya?"

The smoke billowed out of her mouth. "It ain't." And then she sneered. "Jus' look at you. Every time I see you . . ." She chuckled. "Lordy, but you've got yer daddy's looks, alright—you an' your brothers got'em. But you inside? You're all me." Her laughter was throaty and raw. "I should've known, though, should've seen it comin', but what's it matter now?"

I could only glare at her in return. "I ain't like you."

"Maybe not all the way," she replied, stubbing out her cigarette. "But life ain't for everyone, is it?"

And though her words were the cruelest of all, Ma had taught me a valuable lesson that day. But she was right, I supposed, wicked though she was—maybe life was for everyone, but everyone wasn't for life.

I'd flushed her dope down the toilet.

* * *

I woke one night to the sound of hushed voices. My room was dark, the one streetlight busted out some time ago by a group of kids causing some mischief during the night. I crept along to the door, opening it as quietly as I could to see what all the commotion was about, and when I couldn't make out what anyone was sayin', I tip-toed into the hall, before locating the source. I peered inside Tim's room to see both him and Curly, their backs to me, as Tim cut Curly's hair.

Their voices were low and quick, and in my sleepy state, I was only able to gather so much of what they were talkin' about. But the message of it all was quite clear, and lookin' down at the lone bag filled with some clothes and other assorted items, I knew.

". . . don't worry about it."

"What about . . ."

". . . patrol . . ."

". . . at dusk."

"Tim, are you scared?"

Silence.

I didn't bother to watch anymore, instead making my way back to my room. Once in bed, I stared up at the ceiling, barely able to see it's cracked surface in the dark. I thought about Curly, wondering what was gonna happen to him, and then I remembered my last conversation with him. I knew that Tim was sneaking him outta here, and I knew that he wouldn't want me to know anything about it, I knew that, and I was okay with it.

An hour later, I heard the engine of Tim's car, and I glanced out the window, a blank expression on my face. Tim was smart enough to keep the headlights off so he didn't attract attention, but oddly enough, our eyes caught, and then Curly was starin' back at me, too. Nobody waved, none of us makin' the move to do anything, but it was all okay. It only lasted seconds, though somehow it felt longer, but in those passing moments, I think we all understood.

I watched the car until I couldn't see it no more.

* * *

The old tracks were vacant, a newfound feeling in the air. There was a slight breeze that brushed my skin as I sat down in my usual spot under the bridge. In the distance, I could hear the sound of children laughing, could smell the earth as it surrounded me. I couldn't understand why, but though everything felt the same, it felt different at the same time. So much had changed in such a short amount of time, and it was too quick for me to fully comprehend.

My hand was shaking as I lit a cigarette, my hair brushing against my cheek. It had grown out some, though not a whole lot—it barely touched my shoulders. I had always kept my hair long, until Mark and Bryon had cut it all off, but I had grown used to it being short, and I liked it. My bangs were falling in my eyes, but I liked the shaggy look—it allowed me to conceal my face easier. I closed my eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply. The air was thin and cool, but there was some form of security in it that enveloped me like a blanket. I wondered about Curly some, and then I thought about Dean—the louse of a husband that I might have seen a total of four times in the course of six months—and then Tim, and Ma, and Dallas.

They felt like shadows in my mind, both alive and nonexistent.

The sound of approaching footsteps jolted me from my thoughts, and a surprised look blanketed my features as I stared up into the face of Marielle Thompson, or Walkins. I cringed at the sight of her, a dark and tired look in her eyes, her hair chopped short and her appearance ragged. I wondered why in the hell she would be around these parts, but simply raised an eyebrow instead.

"It's been a while," she eventually said, nibbling her bottom lip. "You look different."

"So do you."

Marielle sighed, looking more and more nervous as the seconds past. "You gotta cigarette or somethin'? I could use one."

I debated on telling her to fuck off. Me an' her hadn't seen each other in nearly a year, since she found out that I'd almost killed her husband. There were times when I wished I had, too, believe me, wished nothing more that he'd just bled out and died right there on the kitchen floor. But even thinkin' of that didn't stop how I felt, didn't stop the nagging pain that was eating away at me. Ironically, I was the one killing myself.

"I'm sure you didn't approach me to have a casual chit-chat, did ya?" I said, tossing her my pack. "Can't imagine that you would anyway."

Her face twisted. "It ain't that, Angel. I come here sometimes to think." And then her eyes met mine, an almost silent urge for me to understand something. I'd seen that look, though, more times than none, as it had been reflected back at me in the mirror. "Billy's doin' time, won't be out for quite a while, but I reckon you heard that already, huh?"

"Nope," I replied. "I don't hardly talk to no one around here—not anymore at least." I took a drag of my own cigarette. "What'd he do?"

Marielle expressed hesitation, her gaze lifting away from my face. "He assaulted some girl at a bar downtown or somethin', touched her . . ." She trailed on for a moment, unable to meet my eyes. "He's gotten handsy with me a few times . . . done things. I couldn't . . . I couldn't take it no more, and the baby . . . I needed to keep him safe."

I ain't sure why, but I couldn't stand to talk to her right then, and a part of me didn't know if I would ever be able to. She continued on with her story for another few minutes or so, before I decided to split, unable to listen any longer. She'd asked me if we would be seein' each other around, of if I would stop in and visit her some time, so I shrugged and told her _maybe_.

But we both knew that it wasn't going to happen, that we wouldn't be seein' each other or nothin' like that. Marielle, like the rest of them, had become a part of my past long ago, and there wasn't anything between us that could rekindle our friendship. She had been another lesson that I'd learned, one that I was able to let go of and move on from.

When I walked away from the tracks that day, I neither felt good or bad, but I felt relieved, like another chapter of my story had reached its conclusion, and I was okay with that.

* * *

"She's gone."

I glanced up at Tim, brows pulling together. "What?"

"Ma's gone," he clarified. "She split some time during the night I guess." He nodded toward the house, a contemptuous look on his face. "She took whatever was left of the emergency cash and some other shit, too." He shook his head, muttering a string of profanities under his breath. "Didn't think she'd actually do it, but I ain't surprised."

And I sat there, digesting his words. Ma was gone, leaving us behind with nothing but a piece of shit house, no money, and nothing to go on. Tim had been keeping up on the bills and all, but he'd only been makin' it by the skin of his teeth. But Ma was gone, and everything about the actual occurrence felt like a dream.

So I laughed.

I laughed so hard, harder than I ever had, because what the fuck did it matter? What the fuck did any of it matter now? Ma was gone, Ma was gone . . . she was gone, and she wasn't comin' back. I was bent over holding my stomach as humorless laughter fell from my lips, my cigarette long forgotten.

 _"I almost cursed God for givin' me a girl. Heaven knows I wasn't ever able to take care of you right."_

The side of Tim's lips were curved up.

* * *

January was a bitter month.

Tim had gotten himself locked up, I found out that Dean had been shacking up with some other chick (surprise, surprise), and to make matters worse, we were losing the fucking house. The utilities had been shut off already, and everything was going to waste anyway. I was unable to get a job anywhere, employers practically spittin' at me 'cause of my name, and I ain't just talkin' about my married one, either. I was fucked either way I went—both Shepard and Mathis were useless names.

Tim's hearing was more awful than all of that. He'd been sentenced fifteen years, and without him, I was left with nothing—I had no one. There was nothing left for me, then, nothing at all, and I felt my grip on my sanity slipping more and more.

I had visited Tim one day at the prison, though.

We stared at each other for a while, before he answered my silent question.

"Take care of yourself, Angel," were his final words to me.

* * *

I packed a few things in a bag, necessities an' all. The house was dead inside, a hollowness filling up the interior, the echo of small children, Ma and Daddy arguin', Ma's screamin' and bitchin', the silent tears that wouldn't fall, and the inside pain that wouldn't escape the walls. It clung to everything, an almost suffocating reminder of everything that had taken place there—it was consuming.

We never really had much, but I'd made sure to clear out my brothers' shit, too. I searched the house for any leftover money or anything that could be considered valuable, but came across nothing. I took Tim's leather jacket for good measure, even though it was too big for me, and Curly's old blade. Neither one of them really had anything that was useful, but I wanted something to remind me, to hold one piece of them close to me.

In my own room, I gathered only the light things, going through drawers and cleaning them out. When I opened the night table drawer, I felt my heart plummet straight into my gut, my chest tightening as I stared at my old bible. All the memories of going to church with Ma came flooding back, the image of her an' me in her car, the thoughts of how I wished that I could die . . . and for the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to feel something other than just pain. My fingers flipped through the pages, a picture falling out onto my lap.

Dallas's face stared back at me, and suddenly, my throat tightened up. I quickly tucked the picture back inside, closing the bible and placing it in my bag. Before I closed the drawer, I found my old brush, and a smile stretched across my lips as I thought about Tim. I knew then that nothing was going to be okay, and it never would be, but right then, I could pretend that it was—only for a moment.

* * *

The cemetery was cool and biting, but Tim's jacket kept the air from piercing my skin. The sky was darkening, the sun setting on the horizon. My feet carried me to my final place in that shithole town, the one place that I somehow felt secure at. I felt dead inside, the only thing letting me know that I was still alive being the consistent beating on my heart.

I came to a stop in front of _his_ headstone, a blank look on my face. "Hi, Dally . . ."

There wasn't nothin' too sentimental about my visit to his grave, but I felt . . . a ton of emotions lift from my shoulders, even if only for a few minutes. Thing was, I was scared, scared for what I was about to do. I had always been more alone than anything else, but now I was truly and completely alone, terrified and unsure of myself. Something moved a little ways up, and my jaw nearly dropped at the sight of that ragged white cat coming toward me, its blue eyes starin' at me, sharp and piercing. I wanted to run away, but I felt like I couldn't move, and the damn thing only inched closer to me, stopping just in front of my feet, almost daring me to do something. I was shaking, and it wasn't from the cold, either.

"You again," I said, sounding breathless. "Where did you come from?"

But it didn't move. Only stared.

"Fine," I snapped after a minute, reaching down to pet it. I figured that it would take off or somethin', like last time, but when I'd gone to leave, it followed right behind me, only coming to a stop once I reached Tim's car. I turned to face it, debating on what I should do, and then, as if the answer had been there all along, I beckoned it forward as I opened the door. "C'mon if you're comin'."

And then it hopped in behind me, moving to the passenger side. My lips were pressed in a thin line, my eyes narrowed as I stared straight ahead. All of my thoughts were resurfacing, and only when I felt that ugly cat nip at my hand did I jerk around to face it. And those eyes were boring into my own, the shadows of dusk turning them human for only a second, and I cracked, the outer shells breaking as I recalled everything . . . every fucking terrible thing in my life that had brought me to this point.

And I sobbed, sobbed harder than I ever had, and somehow in the throes of my sorrow, the damn cat had wound up in my arms, my face buried in its white coat, fingers curling to keep my hands from shaking. But I cried until I couldn't no more . . . cried because it was over—it was finally over.

Things would really change this time, starting with my name. I didn't know where the hell I was goin', or where I would end up, or what was going to happen, but I was ready for whatever it was. In the end, death had consumed Angela Shepard and Angela Mathis. I think I knew what I was going to change my last name to, the one that held the most significant meaning to me.

I had done what I never thought I would do, and as I drove out of that shithole town, leaving behind those people, those memories, and the events that shaped my life, I thought about Pastor Rollins and his words to me from years ago.

 _"You know, Angela, God's house is always open to those who have faith."_

A lot of people think that I'm just a shallow girl, but there's a lot more that I think about that I'm not willing to say. Then again, I wouldn't want them to see what I've seen, or hear what I've heard, because I'm more than certain that it would be their undoing.

. . . as it was my own.

* * *

 **A one-shot called "Little Girl" which features Tim's perspective during chapter five of this story is in the works, so keep an eye out!**

 **A tremendous _Thank You_ for all of the feedback on this story! You guys have kept me inspired and motivated, and I couldn't have done it without you! Thank you for being a part of Angela's story! :3  
**

 **—Cat**


End file.
